THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

FROM  THE  LIBRARY  OF 

JIM  TULLY 

GIFT  OF 
MRS.  JIM  TULLY 


BOOKS  BY  RENE  BAZIN 

PUBLISHED  BY   CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 


The  Marriage  of  Mile.  Qimel  and  Other 

Stories     .      .     .      .  (postage  extra;  net  $1.25 

Davidee  Birot net  $1.25 

The  Barrier net  $1.00 

(La  Barriere) 

"This,  My  Son" net  $1.25 

(Les  Noellets) 

The  Nun net  $1.00 

(L'Isolfe) 

The  Coming  Harvest net  $1.25 

(Le  Ble  qui  Live) 

Redemption  .  nit  $1.25 

(De  toute  son  Arae) 


THE   MARRIAGE  OF 
MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL 

AND    OTHER    STORIES 


The  Marriage  of 
Mademoiselle  Gimel 

and  Other  Stories 


BY 
RENE    BAZIN 


TRANSLATED  BY 

EDNA  K.  HOYT 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 
1913 


COPYRIGHT,  1913,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Published  September, 


PQ 

B3M3E 

Author's  Preface 

OF  the  five  stories  which  compose  this  collection, 
the  first  three  have  never  appeared  before.  The 
last  two  formed,  with  others,  "Donatienne,"  "Ma- 
dame Dor,"  "1'Adjutant,"  "les  Trois  Peines  d'un 
Rossignol,"  a  volume  published  in  1894  under  the 
title  of  "Humble  Amour." 

In  writing  the  first  version  of  "  Donatienne,"  that 
which  the  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes  published  June 
1,  1894,  I  felt  very  clearly  that  I  was  composing 
the  beginning  of  a  romance.  But  none  of  the 
imagined  developments  satisfied  me.  It  was  not 
until  several  years  later,  about  the  summer  of 
1900,  that  I  found  in  real  life,  as  always,  the  de*- 
nouement  of  this  drama  of  abandonment.  I  set 
myself  immediately  to  work  and  the  story  became 
a  romance.  The  volume  of  "Humble  Amour" 
was  withdrawn  from  circulation  and  the  copies 
were  destroyed. 

That  is  the  strange  shipwreck  from  which  I 
have  thought  it  possible  to  save  two  stories  which 
reappear  here. 

R.  B. 


919304 


Contents 


PAQH 

PREFACE       v 

THE  MARRIAGE  OF  MADEMOISELLE  GIMEL — 

I.  THE  CREAMERY  OF  MADAME  MAULEON      ...  3 

II.  THE  JOURNAL          23 

III.  NUMBER  149,007       63 

IV.  THE  DRILL  AT  BAGATELLE        77 

V.  THE  12TH  OF  AUGUST      82 

VI.  HAUT-CLOS      96 

VII.  THE  DOUBLE  VISIT 114 

THE  DIPLOMAT      123 

THE  WILL  OF  OLD  CHOGNE 167 

THE  LITTLE  SISTERS  OF  THE  POOR         187 

THE  RAPHAEL  OF  MONSIEUR  PRUNELIER       249 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF 
MADEMOISELLE  GIMEL. 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF 
MADEMOISELLE  GIMEL. 


I. 

THE  CREAMERY  OF  MADAME  MAULEON. 

"FOR  a  fine  day,  this  is  a  fine  day,  Mademoiselle 
Evelyne!  It  is  like  your  name!  What  taste  you 
had  to  choose  such  a  name." 

"Tell  that  to  mamma;  you  will  please  her." 

"  I  am  not  acquainted  with  her,  but  I  shall  not 
miss  the  opportunity,  if  Madame  Gimel  comes  to 
breakfast  here.  Evelyne!  One  sees  the  person 
at  once,  fair,  fastidious,  distinguished,  blue  eyes, 
hair  enough  to  stuff  a  mattress,  and  fine  and  of 
the  true  Parisian  tint  precisely,  the  nut-brown 
shade  of  the  year " 

"Madame  Mauleon,  I  am  waiting  for  the  bill. 
I  am  in  a  hurry." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  understand,  I  am  too  familiar. 
With  you  there  is  no  making  any  mistake.  Your 
eyes  speak  in  spite  of  you;  they  draw  together, 
they  quiver  when  you  are  offended,  and  they  di- 
late to  say  thank  you " 

The  tall  young  girl,  standing  by  the  desk,  could 
not  keep  from  laughing. 

3 


4  THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

"It  is  true,"  she  said,  "my  companions  call  me 
sometimes  'Mademoiselle  Folded  Eyes'!" 

"Oh!  what  a  pretty  live  doll  you  are!  and  pru- 
dent, too!  Say,  Mademoiselle  Evelyne,  you  can 
spare  me  two  minutes,  can't  you;  I  have  some- 
thing— "  The  mistress  of  the  creamery  inter- 
rupted herself. 

"What  are  you  doing,  Louise,  place  a  decanter 
at  No.  4!  Monsieur  has  been  waiting  for  five 
minutes!" 

As  she  spoke  Madame  Mauleon  bent  over  to 
designate  the  customer  at  No.  4,  and  the  strapped 
linen  apron,  which  she  wore,  parted  from  her  bust 
and  made  a  pocket.  Madame  Mauleon  loved 
white.  She  had  white  linen  sleeves  always  im- 
maculate, a  counter  like  a  professor's  desk  cov- 
ered with  white  porcelain  on  which,  on  the  left 
and  the  right,  framing  in  the  mistress  and  com- 
pleting the  harmony,  were  piles  of  plates  and 
bottles  of  "special  cream."  On  the  left  also 
stood  Mademoiselle  Gimel;  her  two  wrists  rest- 
ing on  the  counter  left  both  her  small  gloved 
hands  free,  which  unconsciously  tapped  against 
each  other.  One  could  have  taken  her  for  a 
pianist  playing  an  air  on  an  imaginary  keyboard; 
but  she  was  not  a  musician,  simply  a  typewriter, 
accustomed  to  use  her  fingers,  and  she  was  com- 
posing this  silent  phrase: 

"You  are  a  gossip,  Madame  Mauleon!  What 
can  you  have  to  say  to  me?  Is  it  worth  while  to 
stay  here?  " 

As  she  knew,  within  a  few  cents,  the  price  of 
her  breakfast,  a  roll,  slice  of  ham  with  an  egg  and 


MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL       5 

a  glass  of  milk,  she  began  spreading  the  change  on 
the  counter. 

At  this  moment  a  customer  came  in,  whom 
Madame  Mauleon  installed  with  a  glance  and 
gave  to  understand  with  a  nod  of  the  head  that 
he  was  recognised  and  was  going  to  be  served. 
She  pressed  an  electric  button.  Louise,  the  good- 
looking  little  maid,  came  promptly. 

"Wait  on  No.  1,  Louise,  and  be  quick." 
Mademoiselle  Gimel  is  a  very  charming  person, 
in  fact,  and  the  customer  who  has  just  entered, 
an  under-clerk  of  the  mayor's  office  in  the  rue 
d'Anjou,  is  already  quite  persuaded  of  it.  He 
looks  at  her  with  interest  while  unfolding  his 
paper.  Mademoiselle  Gimel  is  simply  dressed, 
but  with  care,  like  a  Parisian  as  she  is.  Her  sole 
luxury  is  a  small  bunch  of  violets  pinned  to  her 
waist,  a  white  waist,  which  signifies:  "It  is  the 
month  of  July."  Her  black  skirt  is  like  that  of 
so  many  working-girls,  who  do  not  like  black,  but 
who  are  resigned  to  it,  because  it  is  a  colour 
"which  does  not  show  dirt."  Her  straw  hat  is 
not  worth  six  francs;  but  the  two  roses  on  the 
crown  were  chosen  with  taste  and  the  mousse- 
line  beneath,  the  fluff  resting  on  the  hair,  was 
charmingly  rumpled.  Mademoiselle  Gimel  is 
twenty-two  years  old,  and  she  has  been  at  work 
for  ten  at  least.  Her  eyes  are  circled  with  shad- 
ows. Madame  Mauleon  may  think  them  blue, 
but  she  is  mistaken;  they  are  flax-grey,  with  a 
little  of  the  hue  of  the  flower,  if  you  like,  when 
they  open  in  the  full  light.  One  would  say  that 
they  were  intelligent,  for  they  shine;  but  a  clever 


6  THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

psychologist  or  simply  a  man  of  the  world,  who 
might  talk  with  Mademoiselle  Gimel  from  the 
Place  de  la  Concorde  to  the  Arc  de  Triomphe,  the 
Sunday  promenade  of  the  stenographer  and  her 
mother,  would  quickly  perceive  that  this  pretty 
girl  has  less  intelligence  than  decision,  that  she 
is  proud,  that  she  hides  her  feelings,  and  that 
this  little  light  is  the  will  of  a  child  of  Paris,  who 
is  not  afraid  of  life,  and  who  looks  at  it  with  se- 
cret prudence  and  an  amused  air.  Mademoiselle 
Gimel  is  tall  and  very  slender.  Her  complexion 
is  pale  but  healthful,  her  nose  slightly  turned  up 
and  her  lips  barely  pink  in  repose  become  smooth 
and  red  when  she  laughs.  When  she  puts  her 
chain  of  silver-gilt  on  her  neck  and  goes  for  her 
Sunday  walk  people  take  her  for  a  fortunate,  al- 
most wealthy  young  woman;  the  conductor  of  the 
omnibus  says: 

"If  you  have  forgotten  your  change,  Madem- 
oiselle, give  your  address  at  the  office,  that  is 
enough." 

She  has  the  discretion  of  young  girls  in  large 
cities,  which  is  as  real  as  it  is  rare,  having  been 
shaken  and  tried.  She  has  a  little  depth  of  sad- 
ness, like  many  others,  like  almost  all,  but  well 
hidden  and  well  guarded.  She  has  a  sensitive  na- 
ture, forewarned,  one  who  would  place  her  con- 
fidence better  than  her  savings,  but  who  has  not 
even  been  called  to  make  the  trial.  She  is  still 
distrustful  with  Madame  Mauleon  herself,  she 
does  not  make  any  advances,  and  that  is  why  she 
does  not  seem  to  attach  the  least  importance  to 
her  idle  talk.  Still,  she  is  no  longer  as  hurried  as 


MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL       7 

she  appeared  to  be;  she  has  no  embarrassing 
witness;  |the  mayor's  clerk  is  nothing  to  her, 
and  the  waitress  Louise  hears  nothing  when  she 
walks. 

"I  was  going  to  say  to  you,"  resumed  Madame 
Mauleon,  "there  are  many  who  would  like  to  re- 
semble you.  I  have  an  idea  that  you  will  not 
remain  Mademoiselle  Evelyne  very  long." 

Mademoiselle  Gimel  stretched  out  her  two 
hands  like  a  screen  to  ward  off  the  offer. 

"Let  us  not  trifle,  Madame  Maule*on!  In  our 
trade,  we  have  no  time  to  think  of  the  improbable. 
Here  are  the  ninety  centimes." 

"And  suppose  I  should  tell  you  that  the  lieu- 
tenant came  back  here  yesterday?" 

"Yesterday?" 

"Yesterday,  he  went  out  almost  at  the  mo- 
ment when  you  came  in;  he  was  standing  on  the 
sidewalk  opposite." 

Mademoiselle  Gimel  looked  at  the  mistress  of 
the  creamery;  and  her  lashes  drooped,  and  her 
eyes  became  soft  as  if  she  were  looking  at  a  beau- 
tiful star;  but  it  was  only  a  moment  of  oblivion. 
She  smiled. 

"I  did  not  see  him,"  she  replied;  "it  is  really  a 
pity." 

"He  saw  you  very  well.  He  stood  there,  out- 
side, opposite  the  door,  as  if  there  had  been  an 
accident  in  the  street,  all  the  time  I  suppose  that 
you  were  standing  still  visible  above  the  cur- 
tains." 

"And  then?" 

"He  went  away." 


8  THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

"Well,  so  much  the  better!  Au  revoir,  Madame 
Maul6on." 

"Till  to-morrow,  Mademoiselle  Evelyne." 

The  young  girl  went  out,  followed  the  rue 
Boissy  d'Anglas,  on  which  the  creamery  was  sit- 
uated, and  went  up  the  Boulevard  Malesherbes. 
She  walked  very  slowly.  It  was  ten  minutes  after 
one,  and,  provided  that  she  was  at  Maclarey's 
bank  by  twenty-five  minutes  past,  she  would  still 
be  five  minutes  ahead  of  Mademoiselle  Raymonde 
and  of  Mademoiselle  Marthe,  who  breakfasted  at 
their  home  in  the  Ternes  quarter. 

The  intense  heat  of  the  sun  softened  the  as- 
phalt. Joy  dwelt  in  this  summer  light,  made  for 
the  growth  of  life,  and  it  made  more  rapid  and 
more  elastic  the  gait  of  the  promenaders  of  every 
age  who  were  going  up  or  going  down  the  boule- 
vard. Carriages  fanned  the  driveway  and  sent 
the  white  dust  up  to  the  third  stories.  Rising 
above  the  noise  of  horns,  sirens,  and  wheels,  the 
wrangling  of  two  men  caused  Evelyne  to  stop. 
An  auto  had  come  near  upsetting  a  cab.  The 
coachman  abused  the  chauffeur;  professional  ri- 
valry made  sharp  words.  The  driver  cried: 
"Beast  of  an  aristocrat!  Get  out,  old  caravan! 
Get  out,  smoke  all  the  time!" 

The  chauffeur  mocked:  "Look  at  his  muddy 
wheels!  To  the  stable,  old  man,  to  the  stable!" 

The  passers-by  laughed,  grouped  themselves 
around  the  place  where  the  auto,  a  wonderful 
mahogany-coloured  machine,  finishing  its  curve 
with  the  gliding  motion  of  a  ship  coming  into 
port,  drew  up  and  stopped  an  inch  from  the  side- 


MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL       9 

walk.  Evelyne  had  never  seen  so  spacious  a  coach 
before!  The  chauffeur's  seat,  a  coupe  and  behind  the 
coupe,  separated  by  a  glass,  a  third  compartment. 

"That  is  for  the  companion,"  explained  a  work- 
man. Evelyne  was  in  the  front  row,  admiring 
the  interior  arrangement,  the  bevelled  glasses,  the 
deep-yellow  silk  upholstery,  the  pocket  stuffed 
with  maps,  the  spy-glass  lodged  in  a  leather  case 
on  the  ceiling,  and  then,  on  the  roof,  the  trunks 
and  the  complete  set  of  tires,  stowed  away  like 
coils  of  rope  upon  a  ship's  bridge. 

"How  far  that  must  be  able  to  go!"  said  she. 
"One  would  like  to  be  the  companion." 

"Well!  Mademoiselle,  if  I  were  the  owner,  your 
place  would  be  in  the  inside,  for  sure." 

She  had  spoken  aloud  then?  She  turned  her 
head,  put  on  her  offended  air,  her  eyebrows  drawn 
together,  and  saw  a  young  clerk  with  a  fine  beard 
and  a  shrewd  profile,  a  bookbinder,  engraver, 
decorator,  something  of  a  jester  in  any  case,  and 
an  artist,  standing  in  the  rear,  a  portfolio  under 
his  arm;  then,  bursting  into  a  laugh: 

"Thanks,"  she  said;  "I  would  rather  not  ride!" 

She  made  her  way  through  the  group,  which 
opened  before  this  pretty,  smiling  girl.  She  did 
not  appear  to  notice  the  slight  bow  of  the  fine 
bearded  head  and  went  on  her  way  quickly  in 
the  sunlight. 

She  would  have  liked  to  go  in  the  Pare  Mon- 
ceau  and  make  the  tour  of  a  grass-plot ;  it  was  her 
chosen  walk;  she  took  out  her  watch  and  turned 
short  to  the  left ;  it  was  impossible  to  take  such  a 
liberty.  The  management  of  the  bank  had  sent 


10  THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

an  urgent  piece  of  work  to  the  typewriter's  office. 
If  Evelyne  were  late,  Mademoiselle  Raymonde, 
as  an  elder  clerk,  would  not  fail  to  remark  to 
Monsieur  Maclarey  that  Mademoiselle  Evelyne 
took  most  extraordinary  liberties,  "no  doubt  be- 
cause she  was  pretty."  Ah!  what  unpardonable 
inequality!  Nearly  all  the  difficulties  of  her  po- 
sition came  to  Mademoiselle  Gimel  because  of  her 
charming  face,  and  of  that  something  besides, 
which  makes  a  woman,  even  one  of  equal  beauty, 
jealous  of  another. 

While  she  was  walking  toward  the  Maclarey 
bank,  customers  filled  the  creamery:  a  few  work- 
men— as  they  could  only  be  served  with  water, 
milk,  and  beer,  they  were  rare  at  Madame  Mau- 
leon's — post-office  clerks,  a  bookkeeper  of  a  whole- 
sale confectionery  shop,  a  young  man,  either  a 
student  or  young  lawyer,  unless  he  were  an  under- 
writer, for  he  always  carried  a  morocco  bag  under 
his  arm,  which,  on  entering,  he  placed  on  a  chair 
with  his  gloves  and  silk  hat — eleven  customers  in 
all.  The  small  hall  was  nearly  full.  There  re- 
mained but  one  vacant  place.  Madame  Mau- 
leon,  magnificent  with  satisfaction,  brightened  up 
at  the  clicking  of  plates,  lowering  her  head  and 
presenting  her  bands  of  brown  hair  to  the  reflec- 
tions of  the  light,  her  eyes  half  closed  over  the 
easy  accounts,  or  else  she  held  out  a  saucer,  a 
cup,  a  plate,  reassured  with  a  gesture  a  hurried 
customer,  or  reproved  in  an  undertone  Louise,  the 
only  waitress.  The  latter  did  wonders.  She  had 
a  way  of  gliding  over  the  flagstones,  sprinkled 
with  sawdust,  of  pushing  open  the  kitchen  door 


MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL     11 

with  her  foot,  coming  back  with  four  or  five 
orders,  distributing  them  without  ever  making  a 
mistake;  she  had  an  elastic  step,  a  sure  movement, 
black  eyes  which  saw  everything,  a  quick  way  of 
saying:  "I  know,  I  will  be  back  in  a  moment," 
which  would  have  excited  the  admiration  of  a 
head  waiter.  You  must  realise  that  there  were 
no  experts  in  this  hall.  No  one  dreamed  of 
paying  the  compliments,  which  she  so  well  de- 
served, to  the  little  maid.  She  heard  other 
praises,  discreet  on  account  of  the  presence  of 
Madame  Mauleon;  she  listened  to  them  with 
indifference,  as  one  who  lacks  time.  She  was  no 
fool.  When  the  post-office  clerk,  having  sweet- 
ened his  coffee,  drew  from  his  pocket  and  ar- 
ranged in  fan  shape  five  lottery  tickets  for  the 
benefit  of  the  "Scrofulous  children  of  the  Seine/' 
and  asked,  "Mademoiselle  Louise,  if  you  please, 
choose  two  tickets  for  me,  so  that  I  will  win;  the 
others  I  give  back,"  she  replied: 

"  Choose  for  yourself ! " 

"No,  you  have  a  lucky  hand.    If  I  win " 

"You  will  divide?" 

"Well,  not  exactly,  but  I  will  give  you  a  kiss." 

"Don't  trouble!  You  would  get  two  big  prizes 
at  once." 

She  took  away  the  coffee-pot  and  every  one 
laughed.  Madame  Mauleon  herself  approved, 
because  the  jesting  had  not  interfered  with  the 
service.  The  clerk  went  out,  the  fan  of  tickets 
still  open  in  his  fingers.  At  the  same  moment, 
the  lieutenant  entered.  He  was  in  citizen's 
dress.  Without  responding  to  the  inclination  of 


12  THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

Madame  Mauleon's  head,  without  even  appear- 
ing to  notice  it,  he  seated  himself  before  a  table 
upon  which  the  hors-d'oeuvres  were  served,  and 
began  crunching  a  piece  of  an  artichoke.  You 
saw,  under  his  moustache,  his  teeth,  which  were 
white,  pointed,  and  glistening.  You  would  have 
said  that  he  was  smiling.  He  ate  like  all  young 
and  ravenous  beings,  who  always  have  the  air  of 
attacking  a  prey.  He  was  one  of  those  men, 
numerous  in  France,  whom  one  can  call  born  sol- 
diers. His  brown  eyes,  under  the  clearly  and 
strongly  framed  forehead,  beneath  the  straight, 
short,  abruptly  ending  eyebrows,  seemed  void  of 
curiosity.  When  you  caught  their  gaze  you  felt 
that  you  were  in  the  presence  of  a  disciplined 
soul,  a  logical  and  strong  mind,  which  ideas 
interested  little  and  never  disturbed.  A  street 
urchin  called  after  him  one  day : 

"There  goes  a  defender!" 

He  had  guessed  rightly;  he  was  a  man  of  hum- 
ble origin,  but  he  carried  in  his  breast  the  image  of 
France  and  the  little  lamp  lighted  before  it.  His 
features  were  regular,  but  rudely  moulded;  the 
jaw,  for  instance,  a  trifle  advancing  and  square-cut 
in  front,  lifted  at  a  right  angle  near  the  ear,  the 
bone  showing  everywhere  near  the  skin.  His  thin, 
short  moustache,  which  he  tried  to  twist  and  curl 
at  the  corners  of  his  lips,  proclaimed  youth  and 
youthful  pride.  He  must  have  been  the  son  of 
some  subordinate  official,  or  of  a  retired  non- 
commissioned officer  or  small  landed  proprietor, 
one  of  those  who  have  learned  early  in  life  that 
they  must  have  a  career  and  live  by  it,  and  who 


MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL     13 

at  once  have  chosen  the  army,  knowing  that  it 
would  leave  them  poor,  but  preferring  it  to  all 
others  because  it  satisfied  in  them  a  passion  for 
authority,  honour,  and  action.  They  bring  with 
them  to  the  regiment  the  love  of  order,  of  minute 
preparation  for  the  smallest  enterprises,  of  man- 
ual tasks,  strict  economy,  and  also  a  facility  for 
fellowship  with  soldiers,  a  willingness  to  do  a 
service,  valuable  in  barrack  or  camp  life.  Like  the 
real  nobility,  though  for  other  reasons,  they  have 
been — they  are — the  strength,  the  traditional  ele- 
ment of  command,  the  normal  staff  of  the  army. 
Often  they  go  through  the  schools.  Often  they 
enlist.  They  are  methodical,  serious,  and  brave. 
A  chief  who  knows  the  species,  and  who  does  not 
clash  with  them,  can  make  heroes  of  them.  They 
talk  little;  when  they  have  the  leisure,  they 
dream,  but  sentiment  is  a  subordinate  thing. 

Louis  Morand  had  not  been  for  very  long  a 
customer  of  Madame  Mauleon.  She  knew  but 
little  about  him,  not  to  say  that  she  knew  noth- 
ing. Such  a  condition  of  things  could  not  con- 
tinue: the  habits  of  the  mistress  would  not  per- 
mit it.  When  the  lieutenant  had  finished  his 
breakfast,  he  approached  the  counter  and  Madame 
Mauleon  smiled. 

"Monsieur  le  Lieutenant  was  late  to-day,  and 
I  imagine  he  was  hungry." 

Louis  Morand  made  a  slight  inclination. 

"It  belongs  to  your  age,"  resumed  the  mistress 
of  the  creamery,  seeing  that  she  received  no  other 
response  than  the  pieces  of  coin  rapidly  laid  on 
the  counter. 


14  THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

The  majority  of  the  customers  had  left  the  shop. 
Madame  Mauleon  insisted: 

"And  then,  your  profession,  too.  You  drill 
some  distance  from  here,  I  wager." 

"At  Bagatelle  or  at  Issy-les-Molineaux,"  said 
Monsieur  Morand  finally. 

"As  far  as  that?  And  ninety  in  the  shade!  You 
have  run  about!  I  am  not  surprised  that  you 
have  a  good  appetite." 

She  was  delighted  to  have  obtained  a  word 
from  the  lieutenant.  She  smiled,  she  exulted, 
she  wished  to  detain  this  uncommunicative  cus- 
tomer, and,  recalling  him  with  a  sweeping  wave 
of  the  hand,  for  he  had  turned  to  go : 

"Well,  Monsieur  le  Lieutenant,  I  assure  you  that 
I  have  some  customers  who  do  not  often  breathe 
'the  fresh  air'  of  the  country.  For  instance,  the 
pretty  stenographer  of  Maclarey's  bank 

He  knit  his  brows  and  said  carelessly,  but  with- 
out seeking  to  leave  the  desk: 

"I  do  not  know  whom  you  mean." 

"Why,  yes;  the  young  girl  who  came  in  the 
other  day,  as  you  were  going  out.  She  break- 
fasts always  before  you  do;  you  looked  at  her, 
from  the  sidewalk  yonder.  A  young  girl  such 
as  one  does  not  often  see,  I  assure  you;  she  is 
pretty,  she  is  discreet,  she  is  a  workwoman." 

The  lieutenant's  lips  lengthened  a  fraction  of 
an  inch  abruptly  and  immediately  regained  the 
normal  line. 

"Well,  au  revoir,  Madame  Mauleon!" 

"Au  revoir,  Monsieur  le  Lieutenant.  Till  an- 
other time." 


MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL      15 

He  did  not  even  hear.  He  gained  the  door, 
with  a  serious  air,  with  his  marching  step,  preoc- 
cupied with  giving  a  favourable  idea  of  the  French 
army,  of  its  dignity,  of  the  good  use  it  makes  of 
its  time,  to  the  three  remaining  customers,  who 
were  watching  the  officer  go  out. 

"It  did  not  hinder  him,"  thought  Madame  Mau- 
leon,  "from  casting  a  glance  at  the  table  which  I 
pointed  out  to  him,  and  which  is  the  one  where 
Mademoiselle  Evelyne  sits.  He  remembered,  then, 
something.  He  is  a  very  worthy  young  man,  but 
cold.  My  Mauleon  would  not  have  gone  away  so 
quickly,  if  one  had  spoken  to  him  of  a  young  girl. 
He  had  the  artistic  temperament!  This  one — 
I  do  not  know " 

She  weighed  these  thoughts,  her  eyes  lifted 
toward  the  windows,  which  poured  into  the 
creamery  the  almost  dazzling  light  of  the  rue 
Boissy  d'Anglas. 

It  was  the  hour  when  Paris  trembles  less,  vi- 
brates less,  when  its  noise  diminishes,  when,  in 
the  four  thousand  veins  which  are  its  streets,  the 
current  of  life  slackens  and  the  fever  falls.  It  was 
oppressively  warm.  People  passing  walked  upon 
the  heated  asphalt  and  felt  their  heels  sinking 
into  the  sidewalk.  Many  employees  dozed  while 
watching  the  shop,  office,  or  factory.  It  was  the 
hour  for  resuming  work  in  yards  and  bureaus. 
There  were  young  heads  which,  in  crossing  the 
threshold,  turned  for  an  instant  toward  the  blue 
line  of  the  sky  from  which  life  flowed. 

Mademoiselle  Gimel  entered  the  room  where 
the  three  typewriters  of  the  bank  worked  when 


16  THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

the  dictation  of  correspondence  or  the  session  of  a 
board  of  management  did  not  call  them  into  one 
of  the  offices.  Three  tables  ranged  along  the  wall 
near  the  windows,  three  chairs,  three  machines, 
a  box  and  row  of  pegs  in  the  rear,  furnished  the 
room.  Evelyne  took  off  her  hat. 

"Are  you  hot,  my  dear?  Has  any  one  followed 
you?" 

The  young  girl  tossed  back  her  hair,  and,  with- 
out replying,  seated  herself  before  the  second  ma- 
chine. 

The  same  voice  continued : 

"You  know  it  is  not  becoming  to  you!  You 
are  as  red !" 

The  occupant  of  the  table  nearest  the  door, 
Mademoiselle  Raymonde,  had  ceased  to  write  on 
seeing  Evelyne  enter,  and,  leaning  back,  looked  at 
her  with  an  expression  which  she  thought  to  make 
mocking,  but  which,  in  spite  of  her,  betrayed 
her  soul  full  of  suffering  and  revolt.  This  little 
woman,  nearing  forty,  all  nerves  and  eyes,  felt 
that  she  was  vanquished,  or  on  the  point  of  being 
so,  and  she  avenged  herself  on  life  by  detesting 
some  one.  Mademoiselle  Raymonde  was  the  old- 
est stenographer  of  the  firm,  something  like  the 
chief  of  stenography.  She  was  vain  of  this;  she 
could  say  to  Evelyne  or  to  Marthe,  her  two  com- 
panions in  the  office:  "I  am  established,  Mesdem- 
oiselles,  I  am  the  head  here,"  but  she  did  not 
know  that  Monsieur  Maclarey  cared  little  for 
length  of  service;  that  what  he  exacted  was  swift- 
ness of  touch,  exactitude,  the  power  of  divining, 
the  delicacy  of  ear  for  distinguishing  words  indis- 


MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL     17 

tinctly  uttered  or  stammered  when  he  dictated, 
and  which  all  these  virtuosi  lose  gradually;  an 
old  cashier,  yes,  but  an  old  stenographer,  no. 
She  felt  a  grudge  against  Mademoiselle  Marthe 
and  Mademoiselle  Evelyne  for  being  young,  and 
against  Mademoiselle  Evelyne,  in  addition,  for 
being  pretty.  She  had  noticed,  from  the  first 
day,  the  preferences  of  the  employees  of  the  bank 
for  this  tall  clerk  who  walked  like  a  lady  on  the 
carpet  of  the  council  room,  and  who  carried  her 
young  head  proudly. 

Mademoiselle  Raymonde  had  that  flabby  and 
half-faded  look  which  one  remarks  so  often  in 
women  of  the  world  who  keep  too  late  hours,  hair 
weary  of  being  blondined  and  undulated,  a  com- 
plexion that  required  powder,  pale  lips  and  eye- 
lids. But,  at  this  moment,  this  little  iinage  of 
crackled  Dresden  china,  reanimated  by  anger, 
was  also  rejuvenated  by  it.  In  spite  of  the  heat, 
Mademoiselle  Raymonde  had  on  her  shoulders 
a  boa  of  silk  gauze  which  was  becoming  to  her; 
with  her  exasperated  and  trembling  right  hand 
she  was  pinching  the  end  of  the  boa. 

"Presently,"  said  she,  "when  they  send  to  ask 
for  a  stenographer  for  the  Board  of  Oilworks  of 
Mogador,  do  me  the  favour  not  to  offer  your  serv- 
ices. That  is  my  right." 

"Why,  I  do  not  dispute  it!j"  Evelyne  answered. 
"I  never  offer  my  services.  As  if  the  Oilworks 
of  Mogador  were  so  amusing!" 

"Enough,  we  know  you!" 

Mademoiselle  Marthe,  very  dark,  her  hair 
parted  in  the  middle,  and  whom  one  might  have 


18  THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

taken  for  a  student,  came  into  the  room  to  resume 
her  work.  As  she  was  very  stiff  in  her  move- 
ments, her  companions  had  nicknamed  her  Mon- 
olyth. 

"  Isn't  it  true,  Monolyth,  we  know  this  young 
lady?  She  has  ways  of  attracting  the  attention, 
of  gaining  the  favour  of  the  officials.  We  know 
by  what  means  you  succeed!" 

Evelyne,  whom  the  walk  had  put  in  a  good 
humour,  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Then  imitate  me!" 

Mademoiselle  Marthe  had  a  smile  of  contempt, 
which  drew  downward  her  soft  lips  and  eyelids 
with  their  long  lashes.  The  undulation  and  the 
crackling  noise  of  the  moving  sheets  of  paper 
was  heard,  then  the  dry  click  of  a  letter  striking 
the  sheet,  then  ten,  then  a  hundred  minute  blows, 
all  alike,  answering  to  each  other.  The  three 
women  had  begun  to  typewrite.  The  door  opened. 
Young  Monsieur  Amedee,  one  of  the  exchange 
clerks,  thrust  through  the  half-opening  his  square 
head,  which  he  tried  to  lengthen  by  a  too  thin, 
pointed  beard,  and  which  revealed  the  whole 
framework  of  his  jaw  and  throat. 

"  Mesdemoiselles,  one  of  you,  if  you  please,  for 
the  Board  of  Oilworks— 

"Here,  Monsieur,  I  will  go!" 

But  the  young  man,  as  if  he  had  not  heard 
Mademoiselle  Raymonde,  continued : 

"Mademoiselle  Evelyne,  will  you  come?" 

Evelyne  arose.  She  avoided  looking  at  her 
companions  and  carried  with  her  her  stenographic 
book.  The  little  keyboards  behind  her  began  to 


MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL     19 

click  furiously.  Then  one  of  the  typewriters 
stopped  and  burst  into  tears. 

The  afternoon  came  to  an  end;  the  light  faded 
very  slowly  away;  the  heat  continued  stifling. 
When  night  had  come,  the  windows,  one  by  one, 
opened  upon  that  impalpable  furnace  of  dust, 
which  men,  animals,  machines  and  vibrations  of 
pavements  and  of  walls  send  up  through  the  cuts  of 
the  streets.  Each  of  the  cells,  rich  or  poor,  where 
men  live,  one  above  the  other,  was  connected 
thus,  more  closely,  with  this  great  troubled  cur- 
rent of  movement  and  of  noise  which  bathes  our 
houses  until  the  hours  of  approaching  day.  Each 
received,  at  the  same  time,  a  little  of  the  fresh  air 
which  fell  in  waves  into  the  furnace.  That  did 
not  waken  thought,  but  it  took  away  the  terror 
which  the  solitude  of  night  has  for  many;  it 
sufficed  to  preserve  the  semi-sleep  of  dream  and 
repose. 

Madame  Gimel,  who  lived  on  the  fourth  floor, 
rue  Saint-Honore,  not  far  from  the  Nouveau 
Cirque,  like  everybody  else,  had  opened  the  win- 
dow of  her  room.  She  was  sitting  near  the  bal- 
cony; she  saw  well  enough,  thanks  to  gas-jets 
and  reflections  from  fagades,  to  run  the  tucks  in 
a  white  waist,  which  she  was  finishing.  She 
worked  until  five  o'clock  in  the  office  of  a  whole- 
sale house  in  the  vicinity  of  the  bank,  and,  in  the 
evening,  she  found  time  to  do  some  fine  lingerie 
sewing.  In  the  background,  in  the  shadow,  some 
one  was  silent  and  was  thinking.  Madame  Gimel, 
now  and  then,  straightened  up;  she  turned  her 
head,  and,  although  she  only  saw  the  outlines  of 


20  THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

a  motionless  form  reclining  in  the  easy  chair,  she 
brightened  up.  She  asked: 

"Don't  you  want  to  light  the  lamp?" 

"What  is  the  use,  Mamma?  The  twilight  rests 
me  so  much.  I  think  that  it  is  delicious." 

"I  don't." 

A  half  moment  passed.  In  the  abyss  of  the 
street  below  the  huge  omnibus  of  Ternes  shrieked 
out,  its  four  wheels  suddenly  blocked;  wordless 
oaths,  snortings  of  motor,  murmurs  of  cockneys 
rose  in  waves.  Then,  as  if  the  wave  had  broken, 
there  was  a  lull,  a  dull  rumbling,  and  a  little 
tremor  of  the  earth  shaken  by  the  retreat  of  the 
heavy  masses,  which  were  again  set  in  motion. 

"  I  do  not  complain — I  was  thinking  of  the  time 
when  you  will  be  married!" 

"I  do  not  look  so  far  as  you.  Would  you  be 
pleased?" 

"Not  too  much  so!  I  have  only  you,  but  for 
all  that  you  are  old  enough." 

"Twenty-two  years,  yes,  past,  and  what  have 
I  besides?" 

"Everything:  a  Parisian's  courage,  a  trade, 
good  looks,  white  teeth — yes,  indeed,  whoever 
wants  pearls,  a  real  necklace,  two  rows,  not  one 
false!" 

"But,  Mamma,  it  is  only  the  men  who  do  not 
marry  who  admire  them!  What  ideas  you  have 
this  evening,  indeed!" 

In  the  depths  of  the  room,  Evelyne  laughed, 
and  her  white  teeth  threw  a  little  light  in  the 
shadow.  There  were  the  white  margins  of  an 
engraving  and  an  ivory  statue,  a  finger  high, 


MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL     21 

which  shone  in  the  same  way.  Evelyne,  seated 
in  a  low  chair,  had  placed  on  her  dress  and  aban- 
doned to  the  folds  of  the  stuff  her  hands,  which 
shone  also,  very  vaguely.  She  asked,  and  Ma- 
dame Gimel  guessed  that  her  daughter  was  no 
longer  laughing: 

"Then,  your  presentiment  of  marriage  is  based 
upon  nothing?" 

"Upon  nothing  at  all." 

"Curious,  isn't  it?  I  have  one  quite  similar 
to  offer  to  you.  No  reason  for  it,  and  my  heart 
not  in  it.  It  must  be  the  effect  of  the  heat." 

She  rose  and  went  to  the  older  woman,  who 
dropped  her  work  and  raised  her  arms.  Near 
the  window,  without  caring  about  the  neighbours, 
in  the  twilight  which  the  street  sent  up,  Evelyne 
kissed  Madame  Gimel,  who  kept  the  fair  head 
near  her  white  head,  thinking  of  all  the  happiness 
of  the  past,  as  if  an  event  had  marked  its  end; 
while  Evelyne  was  thinking  of  all  the  happiness 
to  come,  although  she  loved  no  one  and  nothing 
was  changed  in  her  life.  And  they  did  not  talk 
with  each  other  any  more  when  they  separated, 
when  Evelyne  had  seated  herself,  turning  her  back 
to  the  street,  by  the  side  of  her  mother,  and  the 
latter  had  picked  up  her  needle  again,  whose  lit- 
tle regular  clicking  was  lost,  like  so  many  other 
sounds,  in  the  noise  of  the  city.  They  were  think- 
ing, both  of  them,  about  the  marriage  of  Evelyne. 
And,  all  vague  as  it  was,  this  thought  divided 
them  already.  Madame  Gimel  was  thinking  that 
if  Evelyne  should  marry  the  shoemaker,  Quart-de- 
Place,  or  some  one  else,  the  intimacy  of  twenty 


22  THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

years  would  not  continue,  in  spite  of  the  vow 
that  Evelyne,  in  her  moments  of  expansion,  made 
with  so  grave,  so  ardent  a  voice,  with  her  whole 
soul  in  her  eyes : 

"If  he  wishes  to  separate  me  from  you,  I  re- 
fuse him!" 

Evelyne,  who  had  less  imagination,  was  sim- 
ply reviewing  in  her  mind  the  words  of  the  mis- 
tress of  the  creamery;  she  did  not  attach  any 
importance  to  them;  still,  she  would  have  liked 
to  know  if  they  would  come  to  anything. 

"More  astonishing  things  have  happened,"  she 
thought.  "If  I  were  loved,  it  seems  to  me  that  I 
would  recognise  quickly  if  he  only  thinks  me  a 
pretty  woman,  or  indeed — and  I  would  love  him 
only  on  this  condition — if  he  has  confidence  in 
me,  if  he  understands  that  I  can  be  a  friend,  a 
power,  a  helpmeet,  a  true  woman,  and  even  a 
lady,  why  not?" 

Time  slipped  away;  she  gave  no  thought  at 
all  to  Madame  Gimel.  And  for  this  reason,  two 
or  three  times,  she  reproached  herself  for  the 
egotism  of  this  idleness  and  this  silence,  putting 
her  hand  upon  the  hands  of  her  mother,  who 
stopped  her  sewing,  much  touched. 

In  the  room,  whose  ceiling  was  low  and  which 
was  of  average  width,  Madame  Gimel  had  con- 
trived to  place  all  the  furniture  which  she  had  in- 
herited from  her  husband:  a  sofa  and  four  chairs 
of  green  velvet,  an  ebony  sideboard,  which  she 
believed  to  be  of  the  Renaissance,  a  standing  bed 
of  the  same  style,  which  was  covered  by  a  coun- 
terpane also  of  green  velvet  intersected  by  two 


MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL     23 

bands  of  hand  embroidery.  The  room  was  gloomy ; 
but  Madame  Gimel  thought  it  the  height  of  good 
taste.  When  the  daylight  waned,  the  cardboard 
margins,  which  framed  the  photograph  hanging  op- 
posite the  bed,  took  on  an  extraordinary  impor- 
tance, and  made  a  sort  of  halo  around  the  portrait 
of  the  late  Monsieur  Gimel,  late  adjutant  in  the 
Republican  Guard. 


II. 

THE  JOURNAL. 

Like  so  many  others  of  her  condition  in  life, 
Evelyne  Gimel  kept  a  journal  in  which  she  jotted 
down,  although  irregularly,  certain  little  events  of 
her  life,  dates,  poems  she  had  read,  and  "impres- 
sions of  plays."  The  journal  had  thirty-two  pages 
in  all.  It  .was  suddenly  increased  by  ten  new 
pages.  And  this  is  what  they  recorded : 

"Saturday,  July  6,  190—. 
"This  morning,  something  new  happened  to 
me.  I  do  not  dare  say  pleasant,  for  one  never 
knows,  when  one  has  no  dot  and  is  a  little  pretty, 
whether  to  be  pleased  with  an  attention  or  to  be 
offended.  But,  in  spite  of  myself,  I  do  not  feel 
offended.  In  the  first  place,  he  appeared  very 
serious;  he  does  not  joke  with  Madame  Mauleon; 
I  have  observed  him;  he  does  not  even  pay  any 
attention  to  the  people  who  enter,  who  leave,  or 
to  little  Louise,  who  waits.  That  is  precisely 


24  THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

what  began  to  interest  me;  he  looked  only  at 
me.  I  arrived  late  at  the  creamery.  I  had  taken 
quite  a  walk  in  the  Pare  Monceau,  on  leaving 
Maclarey's,  at  the  risk  of  being  scolded  by  the 
amiable  Raymonde.  The  reason?  Merely  the 
memory  of  that  jest  of  Madame  Mauleon,  who 
insisted  that  this  officer,  her  customer,  had  no- 
ticed me  for  a  moment  when  he  left  the  shop.  In 
meeting  him,  I  would  see.  Well,  he  was  there 
at  his  table;  he  looked  at  me  at  the  moment  when 
I  entered.  I  came  late  for  him,  but  he  did  not 
know  that.  Nor  can  I  say  that  he  showed  any 
emotion,  or  admiration;  but,  when  he  saw  that 
I  too  looked  at  him — oh!  just  as  at  the  others — 
he  lowered  his  eyes;  he  did  not  'insist,'  and  that  is 
already  very  nice;  it  is  a  proof  that  he  does  not 
think  lightly  of  me.  I  took  my  seat  at  the  table 
in  front  of  the  desk,  near  the  mirror.  Madame 
Mauleon  devoured  me  with  glances  under  her 
eyelids,  she  assassinated  me  with  smiles.  She  had 
the  air  of  saying  to  me : 

'"  At  last,  little  one,  you  have  come  at  the  hour 
when  he  breakfasts,  bravo!  But  turn  your  head 
then,  just  a  trifle,  to  the  right.' 

"I  did  not  appear  to  understand  her.  How- 
..  ever,  in  the  mirror  on  the  left,  without  needing 
to  make  the  slightest  movement,  I  saw  the  whole 
room.  I  had  no  difficulty  in  discovering  that  I 
was  the  object  of  a  study.  He  proceeded  stealth- 
ily, with  little  glances,  when  he  supposed  that  I 
could  not  see  him.  I  am  well  aware  that  the 
creamery  does  not  offer  many  subjects  of  interest. 
Three,  at  the  most:  myself,  a  clerk  from  Fiver's, 


MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL     25 

who  is  not  ugly,  and  a  maker  of  fancy  trimmings, 
whom  I  have  already  met  and  who  is  not  very 
shy.  He  only  looked  at  me,  but  discreetly,  as 
if  I  intimidated  him.  I,  to  intimidate  any  one! 
It  seems  to  me  that  that  is  curious.  A  compli- 
ment would  have  flattered  me  less.  I  was  the 
first  to  leave.  I  do  not  think  that  I  took  ten 
minutes  to  eat  my  breakfast." 

"Monday,  July  8. 

"I  have  seen  him  again.  This  time,  he  scarcely 
lifted  his  eyes  in  my  direction;  but  he  did  not 
look  anywhere  else.  Madame  Mauleon  called  me 
to  her,  when  she  saw  that  I  meant  to  pay  little 
Louise  for  my  breakfast. 

"'I  believe,  in  truth,  that  he  is  interested  in 
you,  Mademoiselle  Evelyne.  Yesterday,  Sunday, 
you  were  not  here,  naturally — he  asked  me  for  all 
sorts  of  information.' 

" '  What  about?    About  whom? ' 

"'About  you!  What  you  did?  Have  I  known 
you  for  a  long  time?  How  old  you  were  pre- 
cisely? ' 

"'That  is  droll.1 

"I  said,  'That  is  droll';  I  thought  very  differ- 
ently. But  I  laughed  in  order  not  to  appear  too 
naive. 

''Twenty-two  years,  my  dear  Madame  Mau- 
le"on,  and  virtue  enough  to  distrust  men  who 
think  me  good  looking.' 

"My  heart  was  troubled,  in  truth.  It  takes 
so  little,  even  when  one  believes  that  they  are 
sure  of  themselves." 


26  THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

"Tuesday,  July  9. 

"I  took  a  long  time  to  breakfast  on  an  egg  and 
a  piece  of  bread!  No  one  came,  since  he  did  not 
come.  Am  I  forgotten  already?" 

"Monday,  July  15, . 

"The  day  after  our  national  festival.  For  me 
the  festival  is  to-day.  For  eight  days  I  had  no 
news.  And,  this  morning,  oh!  I  not  only  have 
seen  him  again,  he  has  spoken  to  me;  he  has 
almost  confessed  to  me.  And  even  wholly,  I  be- 
lieve. I  write  to  be  more  sure,  to  be  able  to  re- 
flect better  on  the  meaning  of  the  words,  on  the 
details,  in  reading  over  my  journal;  perhaps  also 
for  the  pleasure  that  there  is,  when  a  feeling  is 
born  in  your  heart,  to  confide  it  to  something,  for 
lack  of  some  one.  Very  well,  I  was  the  first  to 
enter  and  I  had  not  been  there  more  than  five 
minutes  when  he  himself  came  in.  At  the  first 
glance,  I  comprehended  not  only  that  he  sought 
me,  but  that  this  meeting  was  going  to  be  a  date 
in  my  life.  We  were  almost  alone;  only  a  chance 
customer  with  us,  and  then  the  little  perfumery 
clerk  from  Fiver's,  who  was  looking  at  her  beef- 
steak with  her  near-sighted  eyes.  Madame  Mau- 
leon  turned  pale,  as  happens  when  she  makes  a 
mistake  in  a  bill.  Monsieur  Morand  seated  him- 
self on  the  left,  as  I  was  on  the  right  of  the  room, 
and  plunged  into  the  reading  of  a  paper.  But  I 
plainly  saw  that  he  was  not  reading;  he  never 
moved  his  eyes  from  the  title  of  an  article;  he  did 
not  give  any  order  to  the  maid  standing  near  him, 
and  who,  unoccupied  for  a  moment,  moved  in 


MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL     27 

measure  her  rosy  head,  her  left  foot  and  the  folded 
napkin,  which  she  carried  upon  the  radius  (I 
learned  that  word  at  school),  as  if  to  say: 

"'When  will  Monsieur  le  Lieutenant  deign  to 
see  that  I  am  here ! ' 

"He  did  not  see  anything.  The  little  clerk 
from  Fiver's  having  gone,  Madame  Mauleon, 
who  is  not  stupid,  moved  in  her  white  box  and 
said: 

"'Monsieur  le  Lieutenant,  you  promised  to 
bring  me  a  souvenir  of  your  country!' 

"He  trembled  like  a  man  who  hears  his  con- 
demnation— I  imagine — and  stammered,  embar- 
rassed, trying  to  smile  and  searching  in  his  pocket : 

"  'To  be  sure,  Madame,  I  think  I  have  some  here 
with  me ' 

"He  rose,  while  little  Louise  stepped  aside 
to  let  him  pass,  and  went  toward  the  desk  of 
Madame  Mauleon,  my  friend,  and  I  saw  that  he 
showed  her  a  series  of  sketches,  or  postal  cards, 
and  she  thanked,  and  he  explained,  and  I  heard 
words  cut  with  exclamations,  a  sort  of  duo,  al- 
most as  incomprehensible  as  the  words  of  a  chorus 
at  the  opera: 

" '  Perfectly,  my  mother  is  alone.' 

"'Fifty  years?' 
"No,  fifty-seven.' 
:'What  a  pretty  little  country!' 

"'What  are  you  saying!  Large,  immense,  Ma- 
dame Mauleon!  And  here  is —  We  were  two — • 
Scarcely  enough  to  live. — Content  all  the  same! 
Come  now!  It  is  called  the  Valromey.' 

"'What  did  you  say?' 


28  THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

"'Valromey,  an  old  word;  the  valley  of  the 
Romans.' 

"A  ray  of  sunshine  touched  the  mirror  on  the 
left  and  rebounded  from  the  counter  onto  the 
shoulder  of  the  mistress  of  the  creamery.  Ma- 
dame Mauleon  leaned  forward. 

"'Mademoiselle  Evelyne,  come  and  look  at 
these  pretty  post-cards  that  Monsieur  Morand 
has  brought  me.  Monsieur  Louis  Morand,  Lieu- 
tenant of  the  28th,  of  the  line.' 

"He  turned  around,  bowed  very  low,  as  people 
of  good  society  do  when  they  are  presented  to  a 
lady,  and,  with  a  decision,  an  audacity,  that  I 
had  not  the  time  to  enjoy,  and  which  confused 
me  at  once,  he  gathered  up  the  postal  cards  and 
came  to  me : 

"'If  they  would  interest  you,  Mademoiselle, 
I  should  be  most  happy.' 

"What  a  situation!  I  was  breakfasting,  or  I 
was  making  a  pretence,  I  had  a  knife,  a  fork,  a 
glass  before  me  and  I  have  no  idea  what,  on  my 
plate,  and  it  is  at  this  moment,  without  my  being 
able  to  foresee  anything,  that  Monsieur  Louis 
Morand  spoke  to  me  for  the  first  time!  I  had  so 
little  suspected  that  this  moment  was  near  or  even 
possible,  that  I  had  put  on  my  every-day  waist,  and 
even,  under  my  straight  collar,  a  bright  blue  tie, 
that  mamma  gave  me,  and  which  I  do  not  like.  I 
rose,  I  took  three  steps,  not  to  approach  nearer  to 
him,  but  to  place  myself  behind  the  neighbouring 
table,  which  was  unoccupied  and  clean,  and  I  said : 

"'Certainly,  Monsieur,  I  should  be  pleased  to 
look  at  them.  We  will  be  better  here ' 


MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL     29 

"I  felt  myself  stupid  and  timid,  which  is  not 
usual  with  me.  I  am  certain  that  I  must  have 
had  the  air  of  a  boarding-school  miss,  as  they  say; 
I,  who  have  never  been  to  any  but  the  primary 
— and  there  as  day  pupil!  I  looked  down.  He 
followed  me  and  seated  himself,  not  in  front  of 
me,  but  by  my  side,  very  near.  He  is  taller  than 
I  by  a  head.  He  spread  out  ten  postal  cards  on 
the  marble  table,  like  a  game.  He  had  the  air 
of  guessing  that  he  held  the  trump. 

" '  A  country  no  doubt  unknown  to  you,  Madem- 
oiselle, the  Ain:  some  mountains,  as  you  see:  the 
Dent  du  Chat,  the  Colombier;  on  this  side,  Lake 
Bourget — do  you  like  it,  Mademoiselle? ' 

"'I  know  so  little  of  the  country,  Monsieur. 
I  know  nothing  but  the  rue  Saint-Honore,  fancy!' 

"I  dared  not  look  at  him.  The  hand  which  he 
had  placed  upon  the  table  contracted,  then 
stretched  out  again  and  took  a  new  picture.  He 
has  a  long,  thin  hand,  small  joints  and  the  articu- 
lations strongly  knit;  it  is  the  hand  of  a  strong 
and  of  a  sentimental  man.  Madame  Mauleon, 
motionless  with  anxiety,  must  have  questioned 
my  face. 

"'Then,  look  at  this,  Mademoiselle.  It  is  the 
high  valley  of  Valromey;  if  you  should  go  there, 
you  would  be  astonished  at  least,  I  am  sure. 
There  are  little  villages  huddled  in  a  fresh  and 
green  cave  which  the  wind  of  the  mountains  fills. 
In  winter,  we  often  have  three  feet  of  snow.' 

"He  hesitated  a  moment,  took  up  a  fresh  postal 
card,  turned  it  over,  and,  placing  his  finger  on 
a  light  greyish  spot : 


30  THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

"'That  is  our  house.  It  is  as  well  known  there 
as  the  Louvre  is  in  Paris.  My  mother  lives  there 
still,  alone,  now  that  I  am  gone.  Madame  Theo- 
dore Morand.' 

"Why  did  he  tell  me  that?  The  tone  of  his 
voice  had  suddenly  become  different.  I  raised 
my  head,  not  much,  just  enough  for  my  glance, 
from  the  corner  of  my  eyes,  to  meet  the  eyes  of 
Monsieur  Morand.  This  lieutenant  is  a  singular 
man;  he  was  as  pale,  his  expression  as  severe,  as 
if  he  had  challenged  me  to  a  duel.  He  waited  for 
my  reply  as  if  his  phrase  had  had  a  significance 
of  great  importance.  And  I  believe,  in  truth, 
that  what  he  wished  to  say  was: 

"'It  is  there  that  the  one  who  will  be  my  wife 
will  live  some  day,  and  if  you  would  listen  well, 
Mademoiselle,  to  my  heart,  which  is  so  near  yours, 
you  would  hear  your  name.' 

"  I  did  hear  it,  Monsieur,  but  I  belong  to  Paris, 
and  I  am  a  clerk,  earning  her  living;  that  is  two 
reasons  to  be  distrustful.  I  pretended  not  to 
understand,  thinking  that  he  would  repeat  his 
thought  more  clearly  if  I  did  so.  And  I  said : 

"'Indeed,  no,  the  farthest  I  have  been  is  to 
Bagnolet.' 

"He  looked  at  me  with  more  attention,  to  see 
if  I  were  intelligent,  and  very  likely  also  he  found 
that  I  did  not  express  myself  in  very  pure  French. 
For  his  face  wore  a  smile,  swift  as  the  turn  of  the 
wheel  of  an  auto.  Then,  carelessly,  he  gathered 
up  the  post-cards,  even  those  that  I  had  not  seen : 

"'I  beg  your  pardon,  Mademoiselle,  for  having 
shown  you  things  so  uninteresting  to  you.' 


MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL     31 

"'But  how  so,  Monsieur?  I  meant  no  offence: 
quite  the  contrary.' 

"He  returned  to  his  place  and  I  went  back  to 
mine.  Madame  Mauleon,  very  agitated,  and  who 
always  thinks  that  she  does  not  show  it,  began  to 
contemplate  the  sun  through  the  windows.  I  did 
not  swallow  a  mouthful  more,  I  left  a  portion  of 
cherries  in  the  saucer.  The  lieutenant  drank 
his  cup  of  coffee  at  a  single  draught  and  he  went 
out,  without  saying  a  word  to  the  mistress  of  the 
creamery.  Passing  by  me,  he  made  a  military 
salute,  just  as  he  would  have  saluted  Madame 
Maule'on,  nothing  more,  nothing  less. 

"As  soon  as  he  had  closed  the  door,  I  rose  in 
my  turn.  All  this  had  not  taken  long. 

"'Explain  yourself,  Madame  Maule'on,  what 
does  this  mean? ' 

"'That  he  loves  you,  my  child.' 

"'Speak  lower,  you  have  a  customer.' 

'"He  is  deaf.  But  how  pale  you  are!  What 
is  the  matter? ' 

'"It  is  cold  here.' 

"'Seventy  degrees;  you  call  that  cold?  Come, 
confess  now.  You  like  him,  too.' 

"'You  are  joking;  I  do  not  even  know  him!' 

"'One  loves  always  before  knowing.  And  be- 
sides, you  are  going  to  know  him;  he  wishes  for 
nothing  but  that. »  Come  nearer,  that  Louise  may 
not  hear;  he  asks  you  for  a  rendezvous.' 

" '  Me !    But  I  am  not  one  of  that  kind ! ' 

"'You  are  angry?  You  do  not  know  him,  in- 
deed! Very  well!  Here  are  the  exact  words 
which  he  said  to  me,  I  repeat  them  to  you:  "You 


32  THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

will  ask,  Madame  Mauleon,  if  Mademoiselle 
Gimel  will  do  me  the  honour  to  grant  me  ten 
minutes'  conversation.'" 

"'He  said:  "the  honour?"' 

"'Why,  yes.' 

"'You  are  very  sure?' 

"'I  hear  him  still;  the  honour,  the  honour,  I 
would  take  an  oath  to  it!' 

" 'Then,  I  must  accept.  The  honour!  The  mo- 
tive is  good  then !  It  is.  Ah !  I  beg  you,  Madame, 
do  not  give  me  false  joy.  I  am  only  a  poor  girl. 
I  seem  to  joke  often,  but  it  is  because  I  must. 
I  am  sensitive,  to  the  bottom  of  my  heart.' 

"'Like  me!' 

"'To  be  loved  for  one's  self,  that  is  a  thing  that 
one  always  wishes  for.  When  it  comes  like  that, 
suddenly,  you  understand.' 

'"Yes,  you  are  crying.' 

"'No,  I  am  laughing,  you  see  I  am.' 

"'It  comes  to  the  same  thing,  little  one! 
Whether  one  laughs,  whether  one  cries,  the  heart 
knows  no  longer  what  it  is  doing.  What  must  I 
answer  him,  your — sweetheart? ' 

"'Not  yet!  I  do  not  know  whether  I  shall 
please  him,  after  he  has  talked  with  me.  Where 
do  you  advise  me  to  meet  him?  Ah!  mamma  will 
be  happy!  Not  at  home,  just  the  same!' 

"'No,  he  wishes  to  speak,  at  first,  with  you 
alone,  neither  here  at  my  place,  nor  at  your  home; 
some  quiet  place,  away  from  taxicabs.' 

"'The  Place  de  la  Concorde,  then,  by  the  side 
of  the  statue.  Oh!  no,  that  is  impossible;  all  my 
young  friends  cross  there.' 


MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL     33 

"'Go  a  hundred  steps  farther;  he  will  wait  for 
you  near  the  greenhouse  of  the  Tuileries,  on  the 
terrace  at  the  right,  on  the  side  of  the  Seine,  at 
half-past  six?' 

'" Yes,  that  will  do!' 

"'The  place  is  perfect.  Up  to  eight  o'clock, 
one  still  finds  children  with  their  nurses  there. 
They  will  not  be  astonished,  you  know.  They 
are  used  to  it.  And  on  what  day? ' 

"'Why,  to-morrow!  why  put  it  off?  Does  he 
not  wish  the  meeting  for  to-morrow? ' 

"The  mistress  of  the  creamery  began  to  laugh: 

"'What  put  that  idea  in  your  head?  Why,  no! 
He  is  more  in  love  than  you  are,  more  in  a  hurry 
to  tell  you  than  you  are  to  hear  him ;  and  when  I 
shall  tell  him  "to-morrow,"  he  will  say:  "Why 
not  to-day?" 

"I  felt  that  great  joy  which  pierces  through  and 
which  betrays  itself,  whatever  one  may  do.  Often 
I  had  said  to  myself: 

'"I  may  perhaps  love,  but  I  will  not  show  it; 
that  is  too  silly!' 

"I  feel  that  I  have  not  kept  my  word.  'To 
be  loved,'  I  tasted  these  words  as,  formerly,  I 
would  let  a  sugar-plum  dissolve  in  my  mouth. 
Did  the  passing  people  look  at  me  more  than 
usual?  Those  who  carry  a  joyous  secret  imagine 
that  they  are  transparent.  Perhaps  they  are  not 
wrong.  At  the  bank,  I  could  not  keep  still. 
That  silly  Marthe,  who  thinks  herself  artistic  be- 
cause she  wears  her  hair  parted  a  la  Vierge,  did 
not  fail  to  remark  that  I  went  four  times  to  ask 
explanations  of  Monsieur  Amedee,  whose  report 


34  THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

I  was  copying;  but  Raymonde,  who  is  more  clever 
and  more  malicious,  took  the  finished  report  from 
the  table,  under  pretext  of  examining  it,  and  car- 
ried it  herself  to  the  young  secretary.  I  let  her 
do  it.  She  remained  a  long  time — she  came  back 
with  her  eyes  mor'e  red  than  usual.  It  seems  that 
she  made  the  most  incredible  scene.  I  have  the 
details  from  Monsieur  Amedee  himself,  he  told 
me  at  the  door — a  scene  of  jealousy!  It  is  too 
absurd ! 

"'There  is  really,  Monsieur,  a  preference  given 
to  Mademoiselle  Evelyne  which  I  cannot  explain. 
I  am  the  senior  clerk  and  the  reports  are  confided 
to  her.  There  is  no  use  in  being  devoted !  I  do 
not  know  whether  you  have  remarked,  Monsieur, 
that  this  silly  girl  becomes  more  and  more  giddy? 
To-day  her  thoughtlessness  exceeds  all  bounds.' 

"Here  she  became  much  affected. 

"'I  have,  however,  demanded  information  from 
a  friend  of  mine,  in  the  loan  establishment,  where 
Monsieur  Ame"dee  worked  before  coming  to  Mac- 
larey's.  You  will  pardon  me  for  being  so  frank. 
I  asked  her  if  you  were  capable  of — how  shall  I 
express  it? — of  favouring  one  stenographer  be- 
cause she  is  younger  and  more  coquettish?  She 
answered  me : 

"'"I  do  not  think  so,  he  is  a  settled  man." 
And  yet,  Monsieur,  whenever  there  is  any  impor- 
tant work,  it  is  Mademoiselle  Evelyne  who  has  it!' 

"She  began  weeping.  Monsieur  Amedee  de- 
clared that  he  would  rather  direct  thirty  men 
than  three  women,  and  he  left  Mademoiselle  Ray- 
monde to  dry  her  tears. 


MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL     35 

"All  that  because  I  seemed  happy.  I  was 
happy  in  fact,  and  I  am  so  still.  At  the  late  hour 
in  which  I  am  writing  this,  my  mother  is  asleep 
in  her  room  next  to  mine.  I  feel  that  sleep  will 
not  visit  me  so  soon.  She  has  guessed  something 
too,  dear  mamma!  While  we  were  dining  to-day 
together,  in  the  kitchen,  she  noticed,  at  first,  that 
I  ate  with  the  appetite  of  a  young  wolf,  or  of  an 
errand-girl,  and  that,  nevertheless,  I  forgot  to 
eat,  at  intervals,  to  look  out  of  the  window! 

"'Whom  are  you  laughing  at,  Evelyne?' 

"'No  one.' 

"'Yes,  you  are.' 

"'See  for  yourself;  the  windows  on  the  opposite 
court  are  all  closed,  in  spite  of  the  heat.' 

"'Then  you  are  laughing  at  your  thoughts?  I 
know  how  that  is!' 

"  She  was  silent,  and  I  understood  that  she  was 
treading  many  silent  paths,  that  she  was  search- 
ing in  all  of  the  houses  in  which  I  might  have, 
according  to  her,  a  suitor.  Poor  mamma!  As 
if  Paris  was  the  same  for  her  and  for  me!  She 
did  not  wish  to  say  so,  but  she  suffered  also  at  the 
thought  that  I  was  not  confiding  in  her.  For  my- 
self, I  did  not  wish,  I  do  not  wish  to  say  anything, 
because  I  am  not  certain.  Such  a  love!  Is  it 
possible?  I,  the  insignificant  stenographer?  How 
I  wish  it  were  to-morrow  evening!  Ah!  to-mor- 
row evening,  if  he  has  spoken  to  me  as  I  dare  not 
believe  that  he  will  speak,  then,  I  will  be  expan- 
sive. Yes,  I  will  share  my  joy  with  her,  I  will 
atone  for  the  pain  I  have  given  her  to-day. 
Mamma  said  to  me: 


36  THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

"'The  shoemaker's  son,  our  neighbour,  when  I 
came  in  this  evening  gave  me  a  friendly  nod ;  it  is 
not  the  first  time;  I  am  sure  that  he  thinks  of  you. ' 

"'Quart-de-Place?' 

" '  Why  do  you  call  him  that?    Poor  boy ! ' 

"'It  is  the  name  he  gives  to  all  those  who  do 
not  deal  with  his  father.' 

"'Yes,  more  than  once  I  have  seen  him,  on 
turning  a  little,  when  I  passed,  I  have  seen  him 
devouring  you  with  his  eyes/ 

"'That  leaves  me  untouched,  Mamma.' 

"'Without  doubt,  but  does  it  leave  you  indif- 
ferent?' 

"'Oh!  you  talk  like!  .  .  .  No,  I  beg  your  par- 
don, I  mean  absolutely  untouched.' 

"Poor  dear  mamma  did  not  reply;  but  she  had 
that  little  contraction  of  the  mouth  which  is  the 
sign  with  her  of  a  blow  received,  the  'touch'  of 
the  fencing-master.  It  gave  me  pain  to  be  the 
cause  of  it.  But  what  could  I  do?  We  separated 
earlier  than  usual.  She  cannot  be  asleep,  either. 
She  is  thinking:  'Children  are  ungrateful,  yes, 
all  of  them!' 

"No,  it  is  not  true.  I  am  grateful  to  her,  on 
the  contrary,  because  she  has  been  a  true  mother, 
a  mother  for  whom  her  child  is  not  a  plaything 
to  be  dressed  and  kissed,  but  a  love  which  changes 
the  whole  life.  I  was  'big  as  your  hand' — how 
often  I  have  heard  her  say  that!  I  was  'deli- 
cate/ I  was  'lively  as  a  mouse  with  blue  eyes.' 
Mamma  was  afraid,  if  she  gave  me  to  a  nurse  in 
the  country,  that  I  would  not  be  well  taken  care 
of.  She  was  no  longer  young  when  she  married 


MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL     37 

the  'handsome  Gimel,'  my  father,  whom  I  have 
scarcely  known.  A  little  tremor  of  fear  and  the 
great  sacrifice  was  at  once  accomplished.  Mamma, 
who  had  a  good  place,  mamma,  who  was  a  sales- 
woman at  Revillon's,  gave  up  her  place  for  Eve- 
lyne.  She  has  never  been  separated  from  me, 
and  all  that  she  has  gained,  alas,  is  that  I  do  not 
even  tell  her,  this  evening,  that  it  is  joy  that  keeps 
me  awake.  Poor  mamma!  Her  husband,  retired 
adjutant  of  the  Republican  Guard,  was  never,  I 
imagine,  a  vigorous  worker.  He  had  his  pen- 
sion. He  used  to  say:  'I  am  looking  for  employ- 
ment in  civil  life. ' 

"Mamma  said  nothing;  but  she  embroidered, 
she  took  in  sewing,  she  earned  what  was  lacking 
for  the  home  and  the  right  to  keep  the  'little  one' 
with  her.  Thanks  to  her,  we  have  never  suffered 
for  anything.  She  even  claims  that  we  will  end 
by  being  'quite  at  our  ease.' 

"I  laugh  at  that  this  evening.  We  have  not 
become  rich.  And  here  I  am  loved!  Is  it  not 
mysterious?  Could  I  ever  have  dreamed  that 
an  officer  would  fall  in  love  with  me,  just  for  hav- 
ing seen  me  at  Madame  Mauleon's  eating  little 
pink  radishes!  He  must  have  guessed  that  I  had 
been  well  brought  up,  by  a  courageous,  clear- 
headed woman,  loving  her  Paris,  which  does  not 
spoil  her  but  which  amuses  her,  and  that  I  was  a 
modest  girl,  born  of  an  admirable  mother.  Ah! 
if  we  should  marry,  he  and  I,  he  would  have  to 
be  polite  and  attentive  to  mamma.  No  super- 
ciliousness !  No  false  pride !  I  shall  tell  him  that 
to-morrow  with  other  things,  many  others." 


38  THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

"Half  past  twelve, . 

"I  have  no  desire  to  sleep.  I  must  go  to  bed, 
however,  because  the  stenographer  must  be  at 
work  to-morrow  morning  at  nine  o'clock.  We  are 
given  no  leave  on  account  of  love.  I  can  see 
Monsieur  Maclarey's  face,  if  I  should  say  to  him : 

"'I  have  a  sweetheart;  will  you  permit  me  to 
leave  an  hour  before  the  others? ' 

"He  would  ask  himself  if  I  had  taken  leave  of 
my  common  sense.  And  Monsieur  Amede"e?  He 
would  insert  his  monocle  to  make  sure  that  I 
am  indeed  Mademoiselle  Gimel,  stenographer,  es- 
teemed for  her  regular  application  and  her  good 
humour,  and  he  would  answer  with  his  diplomatic 
air: 

"'Do  not  forget,  Mademoiselle,  that  the  copy 
of  the  report  on  the  Loan  of  Herzegovina  has 
been  intrusted  to  you  because  you  are  the  least 
frivolous  of  our  stenographers.' 

"But,  just  the  same,  at  six  o'clock,  I  fly  and 
without  waiting  for  Mademoiselle  Raymonde!" 

"Tuesday,  July  16. 

"Since  noon,  I  have  not  lived.  I  have  always 
been  proud  of  my  self-control,  but  I  am  so  no 
longer.  I  have  always  believed  that  I  would  not 
let  myself  be  carried  away,  and  my  heart  beat 
madly,  foolishly,  as  soon  as  I  thought:  'half  past 
six,  the  Tuileries,  Louis  Morand';  and  I  thought 
of  nothing  else,  and  I  had  to  exert  all  my  will  and 
a  tiresome  attention,  not  to  mix  these  words  in 
the  copy  of  the  coal-mine  and  financial  reports 
which  I  was  copying  for  the  bank ! 


MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL     39 

"So  I  am  weak.  Oh!  yes,  weak  as  all  the  rest. 
When  I  left  Maclarey's  at  six  sharp,  I  had  noth- 
ing determined  about  me  but  my  chin,  which  I 
carry  a  little  high  from  habit.  Raymonde  called 
after  me.  I  was  already  off;  the  street  was  as  hot 
as  a  laundry  room  and  my  one  thought  was  to 
walk  the  faster;  I  had  no  fear  of  being  red  when  I 
should  see  him.  That  is  a  fear  I  have  entertained 
at  other  times,  when  it  was  a  question  of  presenta- 
tions less  serious.  I  had  no  fear  of  not  pleasing; 
I  was  sure  of  being  loved,  loved  forever,  and  my 
whole  soul  was  strained  only  toward  the  words 
which  should  say  that,  and  toward  his  glance, 
the  only  thing  which  made  me  afraid.  I  took 
the  left  side  of  the  Avenue  des  Champs  Elyse"es  so 
as  not  to  be  opposite  the  greenhouse;  I  saw  only 
the  balustrade,  white  in  the  sunlight  like  a  pen 
stroke,  the  trees  above  and  black  points  moving 
slowly  from  one  tree-trunk  to  the  other.  I 
wished  for  mamma's  opera-glass.  Carriages  were 
returning  from  the  Bois — many  open  hacks,  some 
wedding  landaus,  some  autos.  No  one  has  their 
heart  as  absorbed  in  one  thought  as  mine;  I 
wished  for  a  balloon,  to  get  in,  to  cross  the  square, 
and  to  light  on  the  terrace  saying:  'Here  I  am!' 

"Well!  Those  were  nearly  my  words  to  Mon- 
sieur Morand.  My  desire  was  so  great  to  see  him 
first,  to  come  unawares  upon  him,  thinking  of 
me,  that  I  took  a  way  which  seemed  very  simple 
to  me  and  which  he  thought  very  clever  when  I 
told  him  about  it.  Where  would  Monsieur  Mo- 
rand,  waiting  for  Mademoiselle  Gimel  coming 
from  the  Boulevard  Malesherbes,  place  himself? 


40  THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

At  the  corner  of  the  orange-house,  near  the  Place 
de  la  Concorde,  and  he  must  look  toward  the 
west.  I  went  around  the  orange-house  then  and 
arrived  from  the  east,  I  followed  the  terrace  above 
the  quay.  .  .  .  And — quite  at  the  end,  motionless, 
leaning  upon  the  balustrade,  stood  a  young  man, 
shielding  his  eyes  with  his  right  hand,  placed  as 
a  visor  on  his  forehead,  searching  with  eagerness, 
with  visible  vexation,  with  knit  eyebrows,  the 
Place  de  la  Concorde.  I  approached  as  softly  as 
possible  and  said: 

" '  It  is  I,  Monsieur,  Evelyne  Gimel.' 

"I  laughed,  not  to  seem  agitated.  I  dislike 
displaying  my  feelings.  The  three  little  nurse- 
maids, surrounded  by  children,  saw  me.  I  pre- 
ferred that  they  should  take  me  for  an  adventur- 
ess. He,  too,  was  confused,  on  hearing  my  laugh. 
Oh!  he  did  not  tell  me  so.  You  easily  pardon 
when  you  see  for  the  first  time  face  to  face,  alone, 
or  nearly  so,  the  one  you  love.  He  looked  at  me; 
and  because  he  was  very  serious  and  agitated,  his 
glance,  which  successively  rested  on  my  face,  my 
laughing  eyes,  my  cheeks  which  laughed  and  my 
smiling  lips,  did  not  know  where  to  rest.  Finally, 
he  looked  at  my  hands  and  said  to  me : 

"'I  thank  you;  I  am  very  happy.' 

"At  that  I  gave  him  both  my  hands.  And  I 
laughed  a  little  more  softly,  in  answering: 

'" Shall  we  walk?' 

"The  three  little  nurse-maids  were  looking  at 
us  with  so  lively  an  interest  that  I  would  have 
chosen  to  walk  on  the  other  side  of  the  balustrade, 
on  the  square  below,  and  I  made  a  little  move- 


MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL     41 

ment  to  the  left.  But  he  opposed  it,  oh!  gently, 
but  very  decidedly : 

"'Straight  ahead,  if  you  please.' 

"We  passed  in  front  of  the  bench,  in  the  midst 
of  the  children.  Immediately  after,  looking  at 
me  again,  he  said: 

"'You  laugh  very  readily,  Mademoiselle.' 

"'Oh!  Monsieur,  it  is  impossible  to  hide  .  .  .' 

"'I  had  already  noticed  that,  and  I  shall  seem 
very  singular  to  you;  I  laugh  at  scarcely  any- 
thing.' 

"'And  I  at  nearly  everything.' 

"'I  hope  you  would  not  laugh,  however,  if  a 
man  should  tell  you  that  he  loves  you? ' 

"I  was  transported  with  joy  at  these  words  and 
grateful;  but  I  do  not  know  what  stupid  spirit 
of  independence  and  of  teasing,  something  not 
myself,  triumphed  over  what  is  myself;  I  turned 
my  head  to  the  back  of  the  island,  the  quays,  and 
a  little  boat  which  was  going  up  the  Seine. 

"'That  depends  on  the  man?' 

"'If  it  were  I?' 

"I  stopped.  I  threw  my  little  decided  glance, 
which  still  scoffed  maliciously,  full  into  his  eyes: 
I  saw  that  he  was  half  Wounded  and  I  continued 
as  if  to  wound  him  more : 

"'Really,  Monsieur,  we  scarcely  know  each 
other.' 

"'It  is  true,  Mademoiselle,  you  do  not  know 
me.  I  took  the  liberty  of  asking  you  to  come, 
precisely  to  explain  to  you.' 

"'And  perhaps  also  to  know  who  I  am?' 

"'Anything  you  would  be  willing  to  tell  me  of 


42  THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

yourself  will  give  me  pleasure  but  teach  me  lit- 
tle.' 

"'Ah,  indeed?' 

"'I  know  you.' 

"'Through  Madame  Maule*on,  then?' 

"'A  little  through  her,  but  most  of  all  through 
yourself.  I  have  observed  you  during  eleven 
breakfasts.' 

"'What  you  have  learned  is  at  most  a  means  of 
identification;  but  to  become  acquainted  with  each 
other  takes  longer ! ' 

"'You  are  mistaken!  a  look  is  enough.'  He 
said  that  with  so  much  passion,  quite  at  the  end 
of  the  terrace  near  the  Solferino  bridge,  that  I 
was  seized  with  a  desire  to  thank  him.  But,  as 
I  am  ashamed  of  demonstrations,  as  I  think  them 
weak,  I  looked  incredulous. 

"'No  one  has  had  such  a  look  from  me.' 

"'You  see  very  well  that  I  know  you,  Madem- 
oiselle; I  was  persuaded  of  it.  You  have  never 
yet  loved  any  one.' 

"Well,  I  must  confess  that  Monsieur  Louis  Mo- 
rand  is  altogether  nice !  It  was  no  use  to  reply  to 
him  with  a  joke  and  briefly.  He  was  so  willing  to 
hear  me,  he  did  not  tire  of  being  amiable,  of  li- 
king me  and  of  telling  me  so.  We  glided,  as  the 
poets  say,  along  the  terrace  in  the  glory  of  the 
sunset.  No  more  nurses  above,  no  more  chil- 
dren; only  people  below  the  terrace,  going  home. 
I  knew  that  mamma  must  be  getting  anxious, 
going  to  the  window,  repeating: 

"'That  darling  is  late  coming  home!  Where 
is  Evelyne?  Half  after  six!  six  thirty-five  even!' 


MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL     43 

"He  told  me  all  about  himself.  He  was  very 
unpretending,  very  modest — a  little,  probably,  to 
be  like  me.  I  did  not  find  him,  however,  familiar, 
which  touched  me  deeply.  Respect  is  almost  a 
dream  in  our  world.  I  did  not  appear  astonished 
at  this  perfect  politeness,  of  which  he  gave  me  the 
proof;  but  I  lifted  my  eyes  less  frequently  in  his 
direction  and  I  avoided  doing  so  when  he  excused 
himself  for  not  being  rich,  for  not  being  able  to 
give  me,  if  I  consented  to  become  his  wife,  the 
luxury  that  he  would  have  liked  (these  are  his 
words)  'to  place  at  my  feet.'  If  our  eyes  had 
met,  he  would  have  seen  too  clearly  in  mine !  He 
told  me  that  he  was  born  in  the  department  of 
the  Ain,  in  a  pretty  place  called  Linot,  the  one 
that  he  showed  me  on  the  postal  card.  His 
father,  who  was  overseer  of  bridges  and  highways, 
is  dead.  And  as  I  appeared  to  think  that  title 
very  grand,  without  knowing  what  it  was,  he  at 
once  explained  that  I  was  mistaken;  he  was,  I 
may  say,  obstinate,  not  knowing  how  to  persuade 
me  that  he  was  of  a  very  humble  family.  Truly, 
this  Monsieur  Morand  does  not  resemble  any  of  the 
young  men  whom  I  have  known  before;  he  does 
not  flatter  himself  at  all,  he  is  afraid  that  you  may 
think  him  better  or  richer  than  he  is.  He  said : 

"  'We  are  quite  poor,  or  rather  I  am  able  to  live 
on  condition  that  my  mother  makes  little  sac- 
rifices; my  pay  is  not  enough  and  my  mother 
makes  it  up.  She  is  worthy  of  admiration.  If 
you  do  me  the  honour  to  listen  to  me ' 

"'But  I  am  doing  nothing  else!' 

"'Then,  if  you  do  me  the  honour  to  love  me — ' 


44  THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

Ah!  with  what  decision  he  uttered  that  word,  his 
head  near  mine  and  seeking  my  eyes,  which  were 
obstinately,  unkindly  looking  at  the  distance,  at 
the  Arc  de  Triomphe!  'If  you  do  me  the  honour 
to  love  me,  I  wish  that  you  should  know  that  you 
are  not  marrying  a  fortune.  The  army  does  not 
make  one  rich.' 

"'Nor  stenography  either.' 

"We  began  to  laugh  together,  a  long  laugh, 
without  speaking,  he  looking  at  me,  I  with  my 
eyes  fixed  on  the  vague  distance,  but  our  two 
hearts  so  close  to  each  other  and  so  happy  that 
I  did  not  move  lest  it  should  end.  A  great  wood 
pigeon,  flying  to  rest,  passed  close  to  us  and 
broke  the  charm.  I  was  a  little  ashamed  of  my 
weakness;  I  asked: 

"'You  will  not  think  the  worse  of  me,  Mon- 
sieur, if  I  am  prudent?  It  is  a  quality  that  the 
life  of  a  working  girl  would  give  to  those  even  who 
might  not  have  it  naturally.  You  could  choose 
a  young  girl  who  would  bring  you  a  fortune. 
Why  choose  a  working  girl?  Why  me? ' 

"We  had  resumed  our  walk  and  he  made  me 
no  answer  until  we  reached  the  Place  de  la  Con- 
corde. I  had  wounded  him.  He  was  ardent,  rough, 
passionate,  a  little  of  the  common  people — I  like 
that — in  his  way  of  revealing  the  blow.  He  told 
me  that  he  had  sworn  to  marry  only  a  worthy 
woman,  accustomed  to  work,  clever  in  conquering 
life,  and,  at  the  same  time,  pretty,  distinguished, 
able  to  play  her  part,  make  the  regulation  visits, 
quick-witted,  self-possessed. 

"'You  are  the  one  whom  I  was  looking  for, 


MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL     45 

Mademoiselle.  Now,  if  I  cannot  please  you,  I 
prefer  to  know  it  at  once;  does  my  demand  or 
my  person  appear  perhaps  ridiculous  to  you? — tell 
me?' 

"I  was  agitated,  I  laughed  no  more,  I  answered: 

"'I  cannot  judge  of  you  in  so  short  a  time!' 

" l  Am  I  asking  you  to,  Mademoiselle? ' 

"' Why,  yes!' 

"'Not  at  all;  I  only  ask  to  see  you  again.' 

"'Then,  we  are  agreed.  Will  you  come,  to- 
morrow, to  my  mother's?  She  must  be  told.' 

"'No.' 

"'I  cannot — however ' 

"'Yes,  you  can  put  it  off.  I  beg  you  to  return 
here,  to-morrow,  to  become  better  acquainted  with 
me  before  consulting  any  other  person,  even  your 
mother.  Is  that  much  to  ask  of  you?' 

"I  looked  at  him  a  moment  with  all  my  eyes, 
with  all  my  heart,  with  all  my  troubled  good 
faith,  and  I  found  so  much  decision,  loyalty  and 
love  in  the  depth  of  this  look  that  I  hesitated  no 
longer. 

"'Yes,  Monsieur,  it  is  much  to  ask  of  me.  My 
mother  is  worthy  of  confidence.  But  I  am  willing 
to  do  this.  I  will  not  speak.  I  will  return.  Till 
to-morrow  then!' 

"I  extended  my  hand  to  him  gravely;  I  thought 
that  he  was  going  to  kiss  it.  He  pressed  it  lightly, 
respectfully,  and  I  left  him.  I  do  not  know  how  I 
still  had  the  presence  of  mind  to  go  down  the  flight 
of  steps  without  stumbling,  and  across  the  Place. 
I  divined  his  soul,  I  was  wrapped  in  his  thought, 
which  he  had  thrown  around  me.  And  I  felt  a 


46  THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

desire  to  brush  the  meshes  away  with  my  hand. 
I  did  not  look  back  a  single  time,  but  I  am  cer- 
tain that  he  remained  there  at  the  corner,  by  the 
side  of  the  stairway,  which  serves  as  an  entrance 
during  the  dog-show,  until  I  disappeared  by  the 
rue  Royale. 

"Mamma  was  listening  on  the  stairway  to  be 
quicker  warned  of  my  return.  She  almost  cried 
out  when  she  recognised  my  step  and  my  hat.  I 
called,  going  from  one  flight  to  the  next,  my  head 
raised : 

"'Poor  mamma,  we  were  kept  at  the  bank. — 
Why  do  you  worry? — The  firm  is  about  to  make 
a  large  Peruvian  loan,  day  after  to-morrow.' 

"'Plague  take  Peru!'  She  called  from  the  top 
of  the  stairs.  'It  has  put  me  out  of  temper!" 

"Wednesday,  July  17, . 

"I  have  seen  him  again.  When  one  meets  for 
the  first  time,  the  emotion,  the  vastness  of  the 
unknown  between  two  beings  who  have  lived 
far  from  each  other,  the  fear  of  being  too  trusting, 
— at  least,  with  me — make  the  first  meeting  of 
those  who  think  they  love  each  other,  a  medley  of 
effusion  and  of  diplomacy,  a  little  display,  an 
uneasy  search  for  permission  to  love,  a  sort  of 
examination  which  one  feels  is  too  formidable  to 
be  thoroughly  pleasant. 

"  Youstakeyour  heart, your  repose,  your  dreams, 
you  stake  a  family  yet  unborn  and  more  than  that. 
I  had  so  vivid  a  sense  of  this  peril,  that  we  are  in 
at  the  moment  when  we  are  going  to  give  our 
love,  that  I  restrained,  all  the  time,  not  only  my 


MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL     47 

words  but  my  heart,  my  smile  even.  That  was 
very  unlike  me!  I  did  not  thank  him  when  he 
told  me  things  of  which  in  my  heart  I  was  proud, 
because  I  was  afraid  of  being  forced  the  instant 
after  to  withdraw,  to  become  again  the  little 
stenographer  who  is  not  easy  to  marry  because 
her  ambition  is  to  marry  a  man  'of  worth.' 

"I  begin  to  believe  that  he  is  really  worthy. 
Our  second  interview  was  less  long,  but  more  con- 
fidential ;  we  both  of  us  felt  less  fear  of  being  mis- 
taken. I  had  on  my  white  linen  waist,  which  has 
a  yoke  of  eyelet  embroidery,  and,  through  the 
cherry  ribbon,  knotted  around  my  neck,  I  had 
slipped  a  sprig  of  mignonette.  It  is  a  delicate 
flower  and  faithful  to  the  end;  it  dies,  but  it  does 
not  lose  its -leaves.  Monsieur  Morand  saw  the 
mignonette  at  once,  because  he  looked  at  my 
small  white  throat  and  my  shoulders,  and  he  said 
to  me: 

"  'The  flower  that  I  love  best,  precisely,  Madem- 
oiselle! At  home,  at  our  house  at  Valromey, 
my  mother  sows  a  bed  of  mignonette  in  a  border 
every  year,  always  the  same,  which  perfumes  the 
valley.' 

"'Your  valley  is  small  then?' 

"'No,  very  large.  A  little  thing,  a  sprig  of 
lavender  or  of  mignonette,  but  which  has  a  soul 
full  of  perfume,  what  power  it  has,  and  how  far  it 
goes ! ' 

"'You  are  a  poet?' 

"'No,  I  am  happy.' 

"The  nurses  were  all  there  on  the  bench.  They 
laughed  on  seeing  us  again,  and  we  laughed  too. 


48  THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

It  became  embarrassing.  I  proposed  to  Mon- 
sieur Louis  Morand  that  we  should  walk  on  the 
side  of  the  terrace  which  goes  along  the  Place 
de  la  Concorde.  He  assented.  It  is  a  great 
point  to  agree  on  the  road.  Immediately  after, 
we  became  serious.  Yes,  both  of  us,  and  almost 
sad.  During  what  seemed  a  long  time,  we  ceased 
to  be  young  and  to  feel  that  we  were  friends.  Is 
it  the  same  with  everybody?  Perhaps.  We 
were  like  travellers  who,  reaching  the  port  of 
embarkation,  stop,  less  eager  for  the  journey,  full 
of  questions  about  the  sea,  and  the  boat,  and  the 
wind.  By  and  by,  a  step  more,  and  there  will  be 
no  longer  time.  We  had  both  of  us  foreseen  that 
moment,  yet  it  had  come  suddenly.  He  ques- 
tioned me  about  my  childhood,  my  character,  my 
tastes,  and  I  asked  him: 

"'What  would  your  mother  say  if  you  spoke 
of  your  plan  to  her,  Monsieur?  She  might  think 
that  I  did  not  belong  to  her  world.' 

"'She  is  the  daughter  of  a  very  small  proprie- 
tor.' 

'"She  was  the  wife  of  an  overseer  of  bridges  and 
highways.' 

"'A  very  modest  official!  I  guarantee  you  the 
consent  of  my  mother,  Mademoiselle,  and  more 
than  that,  her  adoration.' 

"I  thanked  him  with  a  look,  and  I  saw  that  he 
turned  pale  because  of  the  tenderness  of  my  look. 
This  man,  whose  look  is  so  stern,  is  very  sensi- 
tive. I  wished  to  know  one  thing,  infinitely  deli- 
cate, and  I  took  advantage  of  his  emotion. 

"'The  words  which  I  guess,  which  I  feel  already 


MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL     49 

upon  your  lips,  are  very  fine;  do  not  say  them, 
however,  Monsieur;  I  would  like  not  to  have  any 
falsehood  between  us.  Do  not  tell  me  yet  that 
you  love  me. ...  I  seem  singular  to  you,  perhaps? ' 

"'No;  you  surprise  me,  but  deliciously.' 

"'Then  I  may  continue  and  question  you  with 
entire  frankness?' 

"'Yes.' 

"'Even  indiscreet?  I  would  like  to  know  one 
thing  which  you  would  have  the  right  to  conceal 
from  me.' 

"He  knit  his  brows  and  took  a  moment  or  two 
to  make  his  decision : 

"'Continue  just  the  same!    I  never  lie.' 

"'Very  well!  I  would  like  to  know  if  you  have 
often  said  to  other  women  the  words  which  you 
would  have  said  to  me  just  now  had  I  not  stopped 
you?' 

"'No,  you  are  not  the  first  to  whom  I  have  said 
"I  love  you";  I  do  not  wish  to  make  myself  out 
better  than  I  am;  I  swear  to  you,  however,  that 
I  have  not  often  been  unfaithful  to  you,  before 
I  knew  you,  and  that  if  we  were  married  .  .  .' 

'"What  do  you  know  about  it?' 

"'I  answer  for  it,  I  will  be  the  friend  who  does 
not  change.  I  have  the  habit  of  obeying  orders; 
and  then,  with  you  it  would  be  easy.' 

"'Easy?  I  have  not  seen  many  plays,  Mon- 
sieur, but  none  said  that.  Still,  I  believe  you. — 
I  need  to  believe  you.' 

"He  left  these  words  unanswered,  and  we 
walked  without  speaking  side  by  side  for  the  space 
of  four  trees  at  least.  I  am  persuaded  that  he 


50  THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

was  sincere.  When  men  are  young  and  are  near 
us,  they  are  very  sure  of  themselves.  Then,  he 
asked  me  two  questions  more : 

"'Would  you  be  willing  to  leave  Paris?' 

"'It  would  be  very  hard  for  me;  I  love  it.' 

"'Impossible?' 

"'No,  because  I  am  capable  of  loving  some  one 
more  than  I  love  my  Paris;  I  am  sure  of  that.' 

"Then,  imperiously,  without  change,  as  if  he 
were  making  a  speech  to  his  men,  he  said  to  me : 

"'I  am  a  soldier;  but  I  am  ignorant  of  every- 
thing else.  A  short  time  at  college,  then  early  in 
the  troop,  then  to  Saint-Maixent.  You  under- 
stand that  I  have  few  ties.  I  own  to  you  that  I 
am  not  well  grounded  in  religion.  But  I  ask  noth- 
ing better  than  to  learn  of  you,  because  I  have 
comrades,  whom  I  esteem  greatly,  those  whom  I 
esteem  the  most,  who  are  fervent  believers.  My 
mother  is  a  devout  Christian.  WTiat  is  your  belief 
on  the  subject?' 

"I  was  forced  to  reply.  I  was  content  that  he 
should  be  better  than  I,  who  have  not  his  excuses 
and  who  am  an  indifferent  observer  of  religious 
duties.  Excuses,  why  yes,  I  may  have  some  per- 
haps, thinking  carefully  .  .  .  mamma,  for  instance, 
is  not  at  all  devout;  my  life  as  a  clerk,  which  is 
not  surrounded  by  many  examples.  ...  I  promised 
to  instruct  Monsieur  Louis  Morand.  But  it  will 
be  necessary  first  to  instruct  the  teacher,  who  is 
not  of  the  first  order.  I  cannot  tell  how  happy 
this  frank  talk,  without  the  shadow  of  hypocrisy 
on  either  side,  made  me.  My  great  Paris  had 
become  almost  silent — you  can  never  ask  complete 


MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL     51 

silence  of  it.  The  air  from  the  Bois  came  so  soft 
that  I  felt  myself  affected  breathing  it.  Mon- 
sieur Morand  sometimes  followed  with  his  eye 
the  rosy  clouds  and  smiled  at  them.  I  found  this 
dangerous  for  a  certain  little  Evelyne  Gimel,  who 
will  have  no  real  advice  in  this  serious  affair,  and 
who  has  much  trouble  already  to  make  herself 
take  forty-eight  hours'  reflection.  I  broke  this 
melancholy  of  love  which  was  seizing  us  both. 
I  asked: 

"' Where  did  you  drill  this  morning,  Monsieur?' 
" '  At  Issy-les-Molineaux.' 
"'Do  you  mean  Issy-les- Aeroplanes?' 
"'Precisely.     I  have  witnessed  two  flights.  ' 
"'How  I  should  have  loved  to  be  there!    It  is 
my  passion!    Every  day  I  buy  a  paper  to  know 
when  we  will  fly.    Who  was  it?    Delagrange? 
Malecot?  Ferber?  The  lady  aviator? ' 

"'None  of  them,  but  new  ones,  some  quite 
young  men,  who  threw  themselves  into  the  air, 
borne  aloft  by  very  fine  linen  wings  that  looked 
like  those  of  a  butterfly.' 

'Tell  me  about  it!' 

"'I  would  rather  tell  you  to-morrow/ 
"His  expression  was  so  serious  that  I  felt  that 
my  laugh  rang  false.    There  was  so  much  true  love 
in  his  eyes  that  I  said  yes.    I  promised  to  come 
back  again,  for  the  last  time." 

"Thursday,  July  18, . 

"It  is  the  third  evening  of  my  love.  Alas,  the 
last  of  my  joy!  All  is  over.  I  write  this  at  I  do 
not  know  what  hour  of  the  night,  while  Madame 


52  THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

Gimel — I  must  call  her  so  now — weeps  too  and 
suffers  almost  as  much  as  I. 

"My  love  began  so  well!  This  very  evening 
at  ten  minutes  after  six,  he  was  waiting  for  me 
upon  the  terrace  that  we  had  chosen  for  our  meet- 
ings, and  he  had,  like  myself,  a  whole  rising  tide 
of  thoughts  in  his  heart.  I  had  not  confessed 
that  I  was  beginning  to  love  him;  I  was  going  to 
tell  it  to  him;  I  was  no  longer  afraid  of  him.  On 
leaving  the  bank,  I  looked  up  at  the  sky  and  I  re- 
ceived a  drop  of  water  on  my  cheek.  Any  other 
day,  every  day,  I  would  have  been  furious,  for  I 
was  without  an  umbrella;  but  now,  I  stretched  out 
my  ten  fingers,  tired  with  striking  the  keys  of 
my  machine,  and  I  said,  I  remember: 

"'I  will  get  there  rumpled,  if  I  must,  but  that 
makes  no  difference  to  me;  he  loves  me  now,  and 
I  am  going  to  tell  him  that  I  love  him.' 

"Why?  That  is  the  secret  of  yesterday's 
words,  words  which  are  seeds,  which  shoot  up 
their  first  two  leaves  in  a  night.  And  I  did  not  take 
a  roundabout  way  going  to  the  rendezvous;  no, 
I  went  straight  ahead,  under  the  drizzling  rain 
which  was  falling  and  whose  drops  I  would  have 
been  willing  for  him  to  drink  from  my  cheek.  He 
was  at  the  lookout;  I  saw  his  tall  silhouette  in  the 
distance,  above  the  white  balustrade,  between 
two  trunks  of  trees;  and  then,  I  saw  his  motion- 
less face.  We  were  drawn  by  each  other,  and  I 
alone  was  advancing;  I  saw  his  eyes  which  were 
full  of  me;  I  went  up  the  steps,  no  one  was  there 
but  ourselves;  I  ran  and  I  said: 

"'I  love  you!' 


MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL     53 

"Then,  oh!  then  his  eyes  filled  suddenly  with 
tears.  And  he  weeping,  I  nearly,  we  were  in- 
finitely happy  under  the  rain,  in  those  deserted 
Tuileries.  I  think  that  we  walked  very  softly, 
but  I  am  not  sure.  In  our  hearts  we  were  be- 
trothed. He  looked  at  me  for  a  long  time  with- 
out speaking,  his  firm  eyes,  his  eyes  of  command 
and  of  justice,  fixed  on  mine,  and  I  saw,  trembling 
on  the  corner  of  his  lips,  the  words  of  love  which 
he  was  too  agitated  to  utter.  He  had  become 
dumb. 

"'I  understand  it  all,  Monsieur,  but  it  is  rain- 
ing. Let  us  go  in.' 

"But  where?  The  great  conservatory  of  the 
Tuileries  was  there,  all  its  glass  windows  wide 
open,  showing  the  palms,  the  orange-trees,  ba- 
nanas, ferns,  and  guarded  only  by  a  little  iron 
chain  festooned  from  one  post  to  the  other. 
Well,  we  entered;  I  stood  leaning  against  a  box 
and  Monsieur  Morand  was  leaning  against  the 
same  one.  It  was  a  very  large  box;  we  stood 
under  the  orange-tree,  and  I  do  not  know  whether 
that  brings  luck,  but  I  shall  never  live  moments 
more  sweet.  He  was  looking  before  him  at  the 
falling  rain  and  I  was  doing  the  same;  I  believe 
indeed  that  we  saw  nothing  but  the  future,  of 
which  we  did  not  speak.  He  had  taken  my  hand 
and  he  pressed  it  often,  and  even  in  the  interval 
I  felt  it  small,  trusting,  loved,  between  his  strong 
fingers,  which  trembled  too.  .  .  .  What  did  he  say 
tome?  Nothing  of  any  moment!  It  was  a  kind 
of  plaint,  which  seemed  to  me  delicious  and  which 
he  called  'telling  of  his  youth.' 


54  THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

"'I  have  suffered/  he  repeated,  'until  the  mo- 
ment when  I  knew  you.  My  life  has  been  poor 
and  lonely  and,  at  last  you  are  here!' 

"What  happiness  there  was  for  me  and  for 
him  in  this  past  sadness!  I  pitied  him.  I  had 
the  feeling  that  I  was  beginning  my  r61e  as  a 
woman,  which  is  to  console.  He  talked  non- 
sense, and  I  too,  in  the  hope  that  it  might  last. 
We  allowed  long  silences  to  fall  between  the  words; 
but  they  were  filled  with  a  kind  of  loving  pity 
which  he  asked  for  and  which  I  gave.  There  is 
a  language,  from  soul  to  soul,  which  has  no  words; 
it  is  like  a  changeable  colour  enveloping  us.  Con- 
trary to  my  custom,  I  was  not  gay.  I  did  not 
find  again  what  has  been  my  way  of  being  happy 
up  to  the  present  time.  I  wished  for  nothing 
except  to  hear  him  say  continually: 

"'I  have  suffered,  and  at  last  you  are  here!' 

"  Suddenly  a  door  in  the  rear  of  the  greenhouse 
opened;  a  gardener  entered  from  back  of  the  palms. 

"'Upon  my  word!  Lovers!  Not  shy  either! 
Will  you  clear  out!  The  conservatory  of  the 
Tuileries  is  not  a  marquise  restaurant ! ' 

"  Monsieur  Louis  Morand  is  a  man  of  self-pos- 
session; I  saw  that  at  once.  He  drew  himself  up; 
he  looked  at  the  gardener,  who  was  approaching, 
and  when  he  was  near  he  said  calmly: 

"'Your  name  is  Jean  Jules  Plot,  you  were  cor- 
poral three  years  ago  in  the  3rd  of  the  2nd.  Were 
you  not?' 

" '  That  is  possible.    And  you? ' 

"'Lieutenant  Louis  Morand.  You  were  not 
in  my  company.  But  I  recognised  you.' 


MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL     55 

"'It  is  because  you  are  in  citizen's  dress,  Lieu- 
tenant; I  beg  pardon.' 

"With  that,  they  moved  away,  and  I  heard  the 
gardener  say  in  a  low  tone : 

"'My  compliments,  Lieutenant;  she  is  alto- 
gether chic,  your  lady-love.' 

"'Say  my  fiancee,  Jean  Jules  Plot.' 

"Turning  he  looked  at  me.  Ah!  the  beautiful 
frank  eyes  in  which  there  was  love  enough  for  a 
whole  life  and  even  for  two!  The  rain  had  nearly 
stopped;  I  made  a  sign: 

"'Shall  we  go  out?' 

"He  opened  his  umbrella,  I  took  my  place 
quite  near  my  'fiance"';  he  was  so  happy  that  I 
could  have  led  him  to  the  right,  to  the  left,  no 
matter  where. 

"'I  love  you,  Mademoiselle  Evelyne.' 

"We  walked  down  the  garden  slope,  we  passed 
by  the  side  of  the  fountain,  near  old  father  Nile, 
buried  under  the  mass  of  his  children;  we  passed 
between  the  bars. 

"'Mademoiselle  Evelyne,  I  love — but  where 
are  we  going? '  he  asked. 

"'To  see  my  mother!  It  is  time  to  tell  her, 
after  three  rendezvous!' 

"I  do  not  know  whether  he  rightly  understood, 
for,  from  the  Tuileries  to  the  rue  Saint-Honore, 
his  only  thought  apparently  was  of  me,  he  did  not 
speak  of  her. 

"  Never  have  I  mounted  the  stairs  of  our  house 
more  slowly.  Ah!  how  right  I  was!  Happiness, 
it  is  joy  which  believes  that  it  is  going  to  last. 
Mine  was  not  entirely  complete.  It  trembled  a 


56  THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

little.  What  was  mamma  going  to  say?  But  I 
knew  her  weakness  for  me.  Monsieur  Morand 
on  the  first  step  had  taken  my  arm  and  had  placed 
it  in  his. 

" '  Are  there  but  four  stories?'  said  he.  '  What  a 
pity!  I  would  appreciate  an  American  sky- 
scraper at  this  time ! ; 

"I  was  of  the  same  mind.  It  was  light  still 
in  the  great  white  cage.  No  one  disturbed  our 
ascent.  When  we  reached  the  top  we  had  the 
same  beating  of  the  heart,  the  same  recoil  before 
the  copper  button  of  the  bell.  Behind  the  door, 
what  word  was  going  to  be  spoken!  What  fate 
was  lying  in  wait  for  us?  I  reached  out  my  hand 
very  slowly.  Monsieur  Morand  saw  the  move- 
ment, and,  it  may  be  in  order  to  put  off  the 
moment  when  we  should  be  there,  he  took  my 
hand  and  carried  it  to  his  lips,  and  I  felt  them 
praying  on  my  fingers  and  saying: 

"'Not  yet.' 

"That  lasted  a  little.  I  believe  that  I  would 
have  let  the  prayer  continue  had  I  not  heard 
mamma's  step.  She  was  coming,  probably,  to  lean 
over  the  balustrade.  It  was  Monsieur  Morand 
who  rang.  Then  he  stood  back  and  mamma 
came  hastily,  joyously  to  open  the  door,  as  she 
did  every  evening.  She  saw  me  first;  I  saw  the 
smile,  which  welcomes  me  and  which  belongs  to 
me,  begin;  but  suddenly,  it  ceased.  Mamma  had 
just  discovered  this  young  man  behind  me;  her 
near-sighted  eyes  made  an  effort,  she  wrinkled 
her  eyelids,  she  asked  herself: 

"'Do  I  know  him?' 


MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL     57 

"She  made  the  little  movement  of  the  head 
which  precedes  the  salutation.  But  no,  she  does 
not  know  this  gentleman.  He  is  a  stranger,  she 
does  not  understand;  she  remembers  that  she  still 
has  on  her  black  alpaca  apron  and  I  see  her  draw 
back  her  poor,  troubled,  dull,  pinched  face  into 
the  shadow  of  the  passage,  while  I  go  forward  and 
say  very  low : 

"'Mamma,  I  will  explain  to  you.  Do  not  be 
afraid  of  anything.  Let  us  go  into  the  sitting- 
room/ 

"Her  first  movement  on  entering  the  room, 
which  is  hers,  was  to  throw  the  surprised  apron 
under  the  sewing-machine.  Then  she  seemed  to 
recover  her  presence  of  mind;  she  turned  the 
lamp  up: 

"'Please  come  in,  Monsieur.  What  is  the  mat- 
ter? - 1  was  not  expecting  a  call.  If  you  will 
close  the  window,  Evelyne? ' 

"When  she  was  seated  with  her  back  to  the 
light,  when  the  window  was  closed,  mamma  had 
already  regained  her  usual  sure  air,  her  Parisian 
air. 

"'But  please  be  seated,  Monsieur.' 

"She  looked  at  him,  during  this  time.  She 
studied  him.  She  classified  him.  I  was  on  her 
left,  by  the  armchair,  and  much  more  agitated 
than  at  the  Tuileries.  I  looked  at  him  too,  and  I 
thought  him  wonderful  and  charming. 

"He  was  not  embarrassed,  not  awkward  nor 
gawky;  he  was  agitated;  and,  what  struck  me  as 
very  proper  and  very  clever,  he  only  looked  at 
mamma  regardless  of  all  the  rest  of  the  room. 


58  THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

He  waited  with  deference  for  her  to  act,  he 
waited  without  impatience  until  he  could  say 
what  he  wished  to  say.  He  remained  standing; 
and  it  was  very  simple.  I  had  not  had  time  to 
explain  anything.  He  took  the  explanations  on 
himself. 

"'Madame/  he  said,  'I  should  have  spoken  to 
you  day  before  yesterday.  It  is  already  three 
days  since  I  made  my  declaration  to  Mademoi- 
selle Evelyne.' 

"She  put  on  her  expression  of  astonishment, 
an  expression  that  she  had  seen  assumed  in  plays, 
happy  really,  poor  mamma,  very  happy. 

"'What  kind  of  a  declaration,  Monsieur?' 

"I  was  so  close  to  her  that  I  bent  forward,  and 
kissing  her  where  her  white  hairs  began,  I  said : 

"'Of  love,  Mamma.' 

"And  in  a  lower  tone: 

"' It  happened  quite  properly.  .  .  .  AttheTuile- 
ries.  ...  He  is  very  gentlemanly.  .  .  .  Receive 
him  well.' 

"He  did  not  speak.  She  gazed  at  him  for  per- 
haps hah*  a  moment.  She  is  sensitive,  impres- 
sionable! I  read  everything  in  her  face;  she  was 
asking  herself: 

"'Let  me  see,  does  that  countenance  impress 
me?  Would  he  have  pleased  me  when  I  was 
young,  when  I  was  saleswoman  at  Revillon's? 
Let  me  see,  the  mustache,  the  eyebrows  a  little 
rough,  this  calm  and  stubborn  brow,  these  eyes 
of  command,  but  which  love,  which  have  some 
fear  too,  not  of  me,  but  of  what  I  am  going  to 
say. — Yes,  surely,  Evelyne  has  done  what  I  would 


MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL     59 

have  done.  .  .  .  Although,  yes,  certainly,  Monsieur 
Gimel,  adjutant  of  the  Republican  Guard,  was  a 
handsomer  man.' 

"'Excuse  me,  Monsieur;  one  is  not  prepared 
for  such  news.  I  am  overcome.  Tell  me  how 
you  became  acquainted  with  Evelyne?  Are  you 
in  her  bank? ' 

"He  began  to  laugh,  and  I  can  still  hear  this 
restrained  but  frank  laugh,  the  last  between  us. 

" '  Oh  no,  Madame !  No !  I  began  by  two  years 
in  the  Soudan.' 

" '  Gracious !    You  live  in  the  colonies? ' 

'"I  lived  there  yesterday;  I  would  willingly 
return  there,  if  I  had  not  the  place  which  I  have 
just  confessed  to  you.  I  am  a  lieutenant  of 
infantry.' 

"Mamma  suddenly  became  very  pale,  she  was 
at  a  loss  for  words,  she,  who  is  always  so  ready 
and  so  quick! 

"'An  officer!  But,  Monsieur,  a  regulation  dot 
is  necessary;  I  do  not  know  whether  Evelyne, 
even  after  my  death  .  .  .' 

"'No,  Mamma,  it  is  not  necessary  any  more! 
I  made  that  objection  myself,  you  recall,  Mon- 
sieur, by  the  side  of  the  myrtle  tree  as  the  gar- 
dener came  in.  I  had  just  asked  you.  .  .  .  No, 
Mamma,  there  is  a  circular  of  the  general  .  .  .' 

"I  thought  that  mamma  was  going  to  smile. 
No,  she  became  still  more  pale;  she  looked  as  if 
she  were  going  to  faint;  she  looked  at  us  in  turn 
with  a  kind  of  stupor,  as  if  one  or  the  other  of  us 
were  going  to  die. 

"'Really,  Monsieur,'  she  said,  'this  project  is 


60  THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

impossible — utterly  impossible. — The  honour  was 
great,  without  doubt — but  Evelyne  cannot  marry 
an  officer.  Will  you  wait  for  me  here?  I  have 
something  to  say  to  the  child,  who  does  not  under- 
stand, more  than  you,  what  I  wish  to  say.  Come, 
my  child.' 

"Saying  that,  she  drew  me  into  my  room.  I 
was  not  afraid;  I  felt  myself  strong  against  all 
opposition,  capable  of  waiting,  of  exiling  myself, 
of  continuing  to  work,  of  learning  a  new  trade 
if  it  were  necessary,  of  so  many  things  that  I  was 
sure  that  whatever  argument  mamma  was  going 
to  oppose  would  not  hold  out  against  my  will. 
Could  I  have  foreseen?  Ah!  I  was  too  confi- 
dent! A  word  sufficed  to  crush  me!  She  drew 
me  to  the  window;  she  passed  her  arm  around 
my  waist;  she  hid  her  face  from  me;  she  spoke 
to  me  her  forehead  resting  on  my  hair.  At  once, 
I  felt  my  poor  love  struck  with  death;  I  did  not 
defend  myself ;  I  did  not  answer;  I  suffered.  How 
long  did  I  remain  there,  without  strength,  while 
she  urged  me: 

"'Come,  my  child,  go  back,  invent  a  pretext, 
send  him  away,  since  it  must  be  done!' 

"Seeing  that  I  remained  silent,  she  even  pro- 
posed to  me  to  go  alone  and  to  say  herself  to  Mon- 
sieur Morand: 

"'It  is  ended,  do  not  return.' 

"Then  only  I  came  to  myself.  I  repulsed  her; 
she  let  me  act.  My  nerves  were  tense,  therefore 
fortified.  I  must  have  looked  very  strange,  my 
eyes  glittering  with  the  tears  that  I  was  holding 
back;  with  my  new  will  to  leave  him;  with  my 


MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL     61 

voice  which  I  was  afraid  of  hearing  myself,  be- 
cause it  was  going  to  separate  us.  I  do  not  know 
how  I  had  the  courage,  I  went  straight  to  him, 
standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 

" '  Monsieur,  there  is  a  great  sorrow  for  me  and 
for  you;  Madame  Gimel  has  just  told  me.  I  was 
ignorant  of  what  she  has  told  me,  I  swear  it  to 
you.  She  was  right  to  tell  me,  I  must  not,  I  can 
not  be  your  fiancee.' 

"'But  what  can  she  have  told  you,  Mademoi- 
selle? She  does  not  know  me.  Someone,  perhaps, 
has  slandered  me  to  her?  Let  her  make  inquiries. 
I  have  nothing  to  fear.  But  do  not  say  such 
words.' 

"'Oh!  no,  it  is  nothing  about  you.' 

"'Then,  how  can  a  thing  which  you  did  not 
know,  and  which  concerned  you,  Mademoiselle, 
have  so  great  importance?  You  were  ignorant 
of  it — what  is  it?  Have  I  not  assured  you  that 
questions  of  dot  did  not  enter  into  my  thoughts. 
If  you  were  without  anything  and  without  trous- 
seau, I  should  not  change  my  mind.  Is  that 
all?' 

"'Alas!  no.' 

"'Then  speak,  tell  me!' 

"'I  cannot.' 

"'You  must!  I  will  not  leave  you  without 
knowing  why  you  break  off.  I  have  the  right  to 
an  explanation.' 

'"And  if  I  ask  you,  Monsieur,  not  to  demand 
it?' 

"'I  refuse. — You  see  that  I  suffer  cruelly.  I 
shall  believe  that  I  have  been  rejected  for  rea- 


62  THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

sons  of  ambition,  which  you  have  been  made  to 
share.' 

"'Indeed,  no!  Do  not  insult  the  child,  Mon- 
sieur! She  had  the  right  to  choose,  in  fact  she 
had  chosen,  and  she  is  not  the  woman  to  take  back 
her  word  from  ambition ! ' 

"It  was  Madame  Gimel,  who  came  out,  in  her 
turn,  from  my  room,  animated,  flushed,  ready  to 
take  offence  for  me,  who  was  only  unhappy.  I 
reached  out  my  hand  to  stay  the  pleadings  of  this 
loving,  offended  one;  I  said: 

"'You  are  right,  Monsieur,  it  is  better  that 
you  should  know  the  truth.' 

"'What,  you  are  going  to  tell  him,  Evelyne?' 

"'Everything;  Monsieur  Morand  will  see  by 
that  how  greatly  I  esteem  him.  He  will  also  see 
that  I  cannot  become  his  wife. — I  am  a  foundling, 
Monsieur,  I  am  a  ward  of  Public  Charity,  adopted 
by  Madame  Gimel.  Do  you  understand  now? 
This  woman,  who  has  brought  me  up,  had  only 
to  leave  me  with  the  others.  I  should  have  grown 
up  on  a  farm  in  Nievre  or  in  Normandy.  I  am 
without  father  or  mother.  You  yourself  see  that 
I  am  not  one  who  can  be  presented  to  the  wives 
of  officers.  You  cannot  deny  it.' 

"He  looked  at  me,  and  he  loved  me  still.  But 
he  did  not  reply.  He  saw  that  I  was  not  lying, 
that  I  had  been  ignorant  of  everything,  that  I  did 
not  wish  to  weep,  that  I  did  not  wish  him  to  re- 
main. He  too  wished  to  be  courageous;  he  did 
not  even  ask  me  to  take  his  hand;  he  bowed  to 
mamma,  the  poor  boy,  bewildered  and  yet  cor- 
rect; he  bowed  to  her  and  then  he  did  not  have 


MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL     63 

the  strength  to  bid  me  farewell.    I  think  that  he 
tried  to  begin:  'Pardon  me—'  but  he  had  not 
the  courage  to  finish,  he  felt  that  everything  was 
crumbling  to  pieces,  and  he  left  the  room.    I  am 
almost  sure  that  he  stopped  to  look  at  me  on  the 
landing.    I  did  not  move.    The  ward  of  Public 
Charity  had  no  word  of  hope  to  give  him,  no 
illusion.    The  dry  click  of  the  lock,  resuming  its 
role  of  guardian,  has  separated  us. 
"Madame  Gimel  spoke: 
"'Come,  let  me  tell  you  everything!' 
"We  talked  and  wept  until  two  o'clock  in  the 
morning.    And,  now,  I  have  no  father,  no  mother, 
no  name  of  my  own,  and  no  longer  a  fiance." 


III. 
NUMBER  149,007. 

At  eight  o'clock  Evelyne  was  up.  She  had 
made  her  bed,  swept  the  room,  and  had  heated 
the  milk  which  the  milkman,  at  half  past  seven 
every  morning,  placed  upon  the  door-mat  in  a 
sealed  bottle  with  a  blue  label:  "Select  milk 
from  the  Chateau  de  Perray." 

She  carried  the  two  cups  on  a  tray  into  the 
room  of  Madame  Gimel. 

"Thank  you,  my  dear.  Do  not  hurry.  You 
have  plenty  of  time.  There,  put  the  tray  on  the 
stand.  Go  get  the  rolls.  That  is  all.  Why  have 
you  put  on  a  black  dress  and  your  black  tie? 
You  look " 


64  THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

"As  if  I  were  in  mourning?  That  is  what  I 
wish." 

"Yes,  my  poor  darling.    But  what  will  the 
others  at  the  bank  say?  " 
"I  am  not  going  there." 
"How!    You  are  not  going  there?" 
"No,  we  are  going,  both  of  us,  on  an  urgent 
errand,  and  I  will  send  a  note  to  Monsieur  Amedee, 
to  say  that  I  am  ill." 

"If  they  learn  that  it  is  not  true?" 

"  It  is  truer  than  if  the  doctor  had  said  so — 

"That  is  true.    And  where  do  you  want " 

"  To  the  Bureau  of  Public  Charity.  I  am  going 
to  ask  for  my  mother.  I  wish  to  know  her  name, 
who  she  is,  and  to  find  her  again  if  she  is  not 
dead." 

"You  will  learn  nothing,  my  child,  since  I  have 
known  nothing." 

"Because  you  are  timid!  Because  you  are 
from  Romorantin,  while  I — I  am  a  Parisienne — 
Though  as  to  that,  I  am  no  longer  sure  of  any- 
thing! But  I  assure  you  that  they  will  tell  it 
tome!" 

She  had  the  appearance  of  a  very  young  widow 
who  was  beside  herself. 

"Yes,  dearest,  they  will  tell  it  perhaps.  You 
are  right.  Drink  your  milk.  I  will  put  on  my 
hat.  Sit  down.  There,  don't  hurry.  We  have 
plenty  of  time.  I  am  always  your  mother,  my 
Evelyne." 

The  pale  Madame  Gimel  took  more  time  than 
usual  to  pin  on  her  hat.  Like  others,  when  they 
have  aged  a  little,  she  sought  for  words  to  console 


MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL     65 

the  sorrow  of  love,  which  had  no  wish  to  be  con- 
soled and  which  burst  into  brighter  flame  at  the 
useless  words.  Evelyne,  seated  facing  the  light, 
near  the  little  table,  looked  into  space  above  the 
opposite  roofs,  which  were  visible  through  the 
open  window,  and  forgot  to  touch  the  bowl  of 
milk  which  sent  up  trembling  wreaths  of  steam. 

Behind  her,  Madame  Gimel,  dressed  for  the 
walk,  having  even  taken  her  "best"  parasol, 
which  had  a  cherry  on  the  end  of  the  handle, 
stood  erect  for  a  little  time.  She  pitied  Evelyne; 
she  envied  her,  perhaps;  she  turned  over  in  her 
mind  the  incidents  of  this  living  romance  which 
was  under  her  eyes,  as  she  did  in  her  hours  of 
solitude,  when  she  had  finished  a  continued  story 
in  the  Petit  Journal  But  this  time,  she  ran  against 
the  unknown  and  the  impossible  on  all  sides.  "I 
am  ready,  my  child;  I  am  waiting  for  you." 

Evelyne  swallowed  a  mouthful  of  milk  and  went 
out  first. 

While  the  two  women  were  walking  in  the  street 
their  eyes  and  even  their  hearts  were  distracted  a 
little.  It  was  still  early.  They  followed  the  rue 
de  Rivoli,  which  they  had  entered,  leaving  the 
rue  Saint-Honore.  Madame  Gimel  had  chosen 
this  route  on  purpose  to  pass  under  the  galleries 
of  the  Louvre  shops,  to  be  able  to  speak  the  words 
which  have  power  over  the  minds  of  women — 
she  knew  them  well — which  appeal  where  there 
is  love  of  self,  of  another,  or  of  child. 

"Look  at  that  beautiful  guipure  bertha;  and 
this  dress  for  the  seashore!  And  that  adorable 
layette!" 


66  THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

In  spite  of  her  grief,  Evelyne  looked.  She  did 
not  go  so  far  as  to  smile,  but  a  little  caress  came 
to  her  from  things  exposed  in  the  window  that 
struck  her  fancy.  Her  heart  was  not  wholly  closed 
to  life,  but  almost  so.  She  had  on  her  black  skirt, 
a  flexible  leather  belt,  a  white  waist  and  her  every- 
day sailor  hat  from  which  a  pigeon's  wing  rose, 
a  single  one. 

When  Madame  Gimel  turned  to  the  right,  a 
little  before  reaching  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  quite  two 
minutes  had  passed  without  her  speaking.  Old 
memories  and  the  dread  of  those  offices,  behind 
which  the  State  sits,  threw  a  gloom  over  her. 
Evelyne,  the  impressionable  Evelyne,  haughty 
because  ashamed,  hostile  beforehand  to  all  that 
she  was  going  to  see  and  to  hear,  hesitated,  her 
head  raised,  between  the  fagades  of  the  public 
buildings  which  occupy  nearly  the  whole  length 
of  Victoria  Avenue. 

"It  is  at  No.  3,  the  Public  Relief,"  said  Madame 
Gimel.  "  I  remember  you  have  to  go  in  the  court. 
Ah!  dear  me!  I  was  so  happy  twenty-two  years 
ago  when  I  came  out  of  there  with  you  in  my  arms, 
and  my  good  husband,  worthy  soul,  who  was 
murmuring  behind  me:  'You  don't  know  how  to 
carry  her  right,  give  her  to  me.'  This  brings  back 
so  many  things.  There  was  a  clerk — but  what 
am  I  saying? — there  were  several  chiefs  of  bu- 
reaus and  the  director  who  made  us  sign  papers 
that  day.  I  might,  perhaps,  recognise  some  of 
them." 

The  memory  of  the  heart  is  not  that  of  the 
eyes.  Madame  Gimel,  on  entering  the  court  of 


MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL     67 

No.  3,  took  her  lorgnette  and  looked,  unable  to 
decide,  at  the  flights  of  steps  and  the  doors  around 
the  court,  when  Evelyne  went  to  the  right,  to 
the  glass  door  upon  which  were  inscribed  these 
words:  "Foundlings. — Information  and  Inquir- 
ies." The  two  women  entered,  turned  to  the 
left,  and  passed  before  an  office  where  the  exam- 
iners of  the  suburbs  of  Paris  were  holding  forth, 
giving  the  accounts  of  their  researches.  They 
came  to  a  little  window  like  that  of  a  bank,  be- 
hind which  a  fat,  grave,  smooth-shaven  man  was 
standing,  who  had  expressive  lips  and  who  knew 
it.  He  did  not  move  on  seeing  Madame  Gimel 
and  Evelyne.  The  latter  did  not  advance.  Ma- 
dame Gimel  glided  lightly,  with  the  step  she  had 
had  at  Revillon's  when  advancing  to  meet  a  cus- 
tomer, and  said: 

"Monsieur,  the  Chief  of  the  Bureau?" 

He  answered  immediately: 

"Have  you  the  child's  number?" 

"No,  Monsieur,  I  haven't  it  with  me,  but  I 
remember  it  perfectly :  149,007." 

The  clerk  turned  to  an  inclined  desk  upon  which 
a  register  lay.  Madame  Gimel  saw  plainly  that 
he  was  in  error,  but  she  did  not  dare  tell  him  so, 
on  account  of  the  reverential  fear  with  which 
every  official  inspired  her.  The  clerk  crushed 
under  his  thumb  and  turned  with  a  swift,  circu- 
lar motion  five  or  six  leaves,  then  let  them  drop 
again. 

"Why,"  he  exclaimed,  "this  is  No.  170,000! 
Your  number  is  old,  Madame." 

A  firm,  young  voice  spoke: 


68  THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

"Monsieur,  I  am  No.  149,007!" 

The  fat  scribe  was  struck  with  the  accent  of  this 
voice,  and  when  he  looked  at  Evelyne,  who  had 
advanced  to  Madame  Gimel's  right,  his  aston- 
ishment became  admiration.  The  expressive  lips 
made  a  sign. 

"Pardon  me,  Mademoiselle;  I  could  not  sus- 
pect- 

"That  does  not  matter,"  interrupted  the  young 
girl.  "I  was  adopted  twenty-two  years  ago  by 
Madame " 

"Oh!  Evelyne!" 

"  Naturally.  How  would  you  have  me  explain? 
I  have  come,  Monsieur,  to  get  some  information 
about  my  origin." 

She  was  nervous  and  decided  to  be  impertinent. 

The  head  of  the  bureau  saw  that.  He  econ- 
omised the  rest  of  the  smile,  which  was  waiting 
its  turn,  and  answered : 

"Very  well,  Mademoiselle.  Apply  then  to  the 
Bureau  of  Adoptions,  stairway  A,  top  floor." 

He  bowed  with  administrative  politeness,  yet 
with  a  shade  of  reserve,  on  account  of  the  abrupt- 
ness of  the  young  girl.  Madame  Gimel  alone 
acknowledged  it.  The  pigeon-wing  had  already 
flitted  on  and  passed  in  front  of  the  examiners, 
who  blinked  their  eyes  in  Evelyne's  wake. 

The  latter,  recrossing  the  court,  found  stair- 
way A,  mounted  several  flights,  and  went  down 
a  corridor  upon  which  numbered  doors  opened. 
She  knocked  at  one  of  the  last,  and  entered  a 
warm  cell  of  a  room  whose  occupant  her  knock 
had  awakened. 


MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL     69 

"I  do  not  remember  him  either,"  whispered 
Madame  Gimel,  coming  close  to  Evelyne. 

The  man  pushed  forward  two  chairs,  the  only 
ones  which  furnished  the  room.  He  belonged  to 
that  intelligent  and  ardent  class  who  rush  into 
public  office,  who  invent  and  meditate  on  reforms, 
make  reports,  hope  for  advancement,  and,  receiv- 
ing very  little,  sometimes  get  angry,  but  more 
often  relax  their  vigilance.  His  ample  forehead, 
which  the  baldness  of  his  temples  prolonged,  and 
his  pointed  chin  with  its  curved  beard,  gave  him 
a  triangular  head.  He  glanced  at  the  little  red 
curtains  which  framed  the  window,  at  the  Empire 
clock,  two  black  columns  and  a  gold  dial,  at  the 
files  of  papers  lined  up  before  him,  to  assure  him- 
self that  all  was  in  order,  placed  a  small  eye- 
glass on  his  nose,  which  was  also  triangular,  and 
asked : 

"What  can  I  do  for  you,  Madame?" 

Evelyne  did  not  give  Madame  Gimel  time  to 
reply. 

"  It  appears,  Monsieur,"  said  she,  "that  I  am  No. 
149,007.  I  learned  yesterday  evening  that  I  was 
not  the  daughter  of  Madame  Gimel;  that  I  was 
a  ward  of  the  Public  Relief.  I  have  come  to  ask 
you  to  tell  me  my  mother's  name,  to  permit  me 
to  find  her  again,  if  she  is  living. — I  am  extremely 
unhappy. — Especially,  I  beg  of  you — no  consola- 
tions and  no  commonplaces." 

Monsieur  Heidemetz  gave  an  approving  glance 
and  replied : 

"That  does  not  seem  to  me  possible.  You 
or  Madame  must  have " 


70  THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

"Gimel,  Monsieur;  my  husband  was  adjutant 
in  the  Republican  Guard." 

"Madame  Gimel  should  have  a  certificate  of 
origin,  guaranteed  by  the  Administration." 

"Yes,  I  have  seen  it;  it  is  a  document  which 
shows  nothing.  You  cannot  admit  that  a  child 
may  be  abandoned  without  the  mother  giving  her 
name?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  but  that  is  so,  Mademoi- 
selle." 

"Without  her  making  known  what  motive 
has  actuated  her?" 

"That  may  happen,  on  the  contrary." 

"From  whence  one  springs,  from  what  poverty 
or  from  what  vice?  For  I  can  only  hesitate  be- 
tween those  two  things." 

"Come,  come,  my  little  Evelyne,  calm  your- 
self." 

"Let  me  alone;  I  am  speaking  to  monsieur, 
who  sees  that  I  wish  to  know  all  that  he  knows 
himself,  and  I  think  that  my  pretension  is  not 
excessive " 

The  hand  of  Monsieur  Heidemetz  removed  the 
eye-glass  and  seemed  to  fondle  it. 

"It  is,  Mademoiselle.  You  have  a  right  only 
to  the  information  contained  in  the  Administra- 
tion's certificate  of  origin.  Nevertheless,  to  oblige 
you,  I  am  going  to  do  an  exceptional  thing,  alto- 
gether exceptional,  one  which  I  have  vainly  asked 
should  be  made  obligatory  on  the  Public  Relief." 

He  rang  for  a  messenger. 

"Go,  ask  for  ,this  file  at  the  archives."  He 
wrote  two  lines  upon  a  slip  of  paper,  which  he 


MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL     71 

handed  to  the  messenger,  and  immediately  be- 
gan to  question  Madame  Gimel  about  the  cir- 
cumstances of  what  he  termed:  "The  placing 
under  guardianship."  Madame  Gimel  recalled 
with  complaisance  the  long  discussions  that  she 
had  had  with  Monsieur  Gimel  before  deciding 
to  adopt  a  child;  the  indecision  of  her  husband, 
who  did  not  know  whether  he  would  adopt  a 
boy  or  girl;  her  own  insistence  in  asking  for  "a 
little  girl";  the  comparison  of  the  photographs  of 
the  "candidates";  then  the  coming  of  the  couple, 
accompanied  by  a  notary,  to  the  director  of  the 
Public  Relief  himself,  "in  that  fine  office  where 
the  portraits  of  benevolent  persons  of  all  ages 
are  hung." 

Evelyne  did  not  speak,  in  spite  of  the  atten- 
tions of  the  young  clerk,  who  furnished  her  with 
explanations  which  she  did  not  ask  for. 

When  the  messenger  returned,  she  rose  and 
went  quickly  to  the  table  on  which  he  placed  a 
small  vellow  file  of  papers. 

"Ah!    Let  me  see." 

"Look." 

Evelyne  bent  forward,  her  hands  resting  on  the 
table.  She  followed  the  text  which  Monsieur 
Heidemetz  read  rapidly  in  an  undertone.  It  was 
a  double  cream-coloured  sheet  of  large  size,  hav- 
ing on  each  leaf,  on  the  first  page  and  on  the 
reverse,  a  printed  list  of  questions,  with  square 
spaces  opposite,  nearly  all  empty,  alas! 

"Bulletin  of  information  concerning  a  child 
presented  at  the  Foundling  Hospital.  Sex  of 
child:  feminine.  Name  and  surname:  Evelyne." 


72  THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

"Then  I  have  no  other  name,  Monsieur?" 

"Evelyne,  nothing  more,  Mademoiselle.  You 
can  see.  Place  and  date  of  birth,  Department: 
Paris,  October  1,  1886." 

"At  least  I  was  born  in  Paris,"  said  Evelyne. 

"Is  it  legitimate  or  illegitimate?  Illegitimate. 
Recognised  by  the  father?  No.  By  the  mother? 
No.  Place  of  confinement?  Blank.  Wish  of  the 
parents  as  to  creed?  Blank." 

"Ah!  as  for  that,  she  was  baptised,  Monsieur," 
interrupted  Madame  Gimel.  "I  took  care  to  have 
her  baptised  conditionally,  as  they  say.  And  I 
may  even  add  that  she  is  very  religious  for  a — 
That  is,  I  mean  to  say;  I  have  brought  her  up  as 
my  own  child." 

"Date  of  deposit.  You  were  twelve  days  old, 
Mademoiselle.  Detailed  explanation  of  the  mo- 
tives which  led  to  the  abandonment  of  the  child." 

Here  monsieur  showed  a  delicate  attention. 
He  had  a  feeling  that  the  young  creature  who 
was  standing  near  him  suffered,  and  he  did  not 
read  aloud  the  motive  written  in  the  space  for 
the  answers;  the  motive  in  a  single  word:  pov- 
erty. Evelyne  was  grateful  to  him  for  this.  He 
turned  the  page.  The  mother  had  been  unwill- 
ing to  give  any  information  about  herself  which 
could  identify  her,  and  all  that  she  had  consented 
to  say  was  that  she  had  had  no  other  child  but 
the  one  which  she  abandoned. 

The  third  page  must  have  been  the  hardest  for 
Evelyne,  and  the  silence  was  complete  while  Eve- 
lyne read  these  cruel  lines : 

"Has  the  mother  been  told  that  the  admission 


MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL     73 

of  a  child  to  the  Foundling  Hospital  did  not  con- 
stitute a  temporary  placing,  but  an  effective 
abandonment?"  "Yes." 

"And  that  the  consequences  were  the  following: 
absolute  ignorance  of  the  places  where  the  infant 
would  be  put  to  nurse  or  be  placed?"  "Yes." 

"Absence  of  all  communication,  even  indirect, 
with  it?"  "Y*s." 

The  young  girl  turned  her  head  aside  an  in- 
stant to  Madame  Gimel. 

"My  mother  must  have  been  very  unhappy," 
she  said,  "to  accept  that!" 

Madame  GimePs  eyes  were  red,  and  she  could 
not  reply.  Evelyne  read  this  last  condition : 

"News  of  the  child  given  every  three  months 
only,  and  confined  merely  to  the  question  of  ex- 
istence or  of  decease?" 

And  there  was  again  "Yes"  in  the  column  of 
replies. 

Monsieur  Heidemetz  folded  the  leaf,  and  the 
noise  of  rustling  paper  ran  from  one  wall  to  the 
other  and  reigned  alone  during  some  seconds  in 
this  mansard  above  that  great  world  Paris,  where 
three  persons  were  living  over  again  a  story 
twenty-two  years  old.  Evelyne  asked  very  low: 

"Is  that  all  that  I  shall  know  of  her?" 

"It  is  all  that  we  know,  Mademoiselle." 

"She  never  came  to  ask  for  news  of  her  child, 
afterward?" 

"I  do  not  know;  it  would  be  necessary  to  make 
researches;  to  oblige  you,  I  can " 

"No,  I  thank  you." 

She   stepped  back;  the   chief  of  the  bureau 


74  THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

turned  the  leaves  of  file  149,007,  partly  to  satisfy 
his  sense  of  duty,  partly  to  hide  his  emotion. 

"Ah!  Let  me  see  that,  Monsieur;  I  think  I 
remember " 

Madame  Gimel  had  seen  a  note,  between  a 
report  and  the  black-covered  register  of  Evelyne, 
sent  by  the  agent  of  Bourbon  F Archambault ;  she 
seized  and  read  it,  to  console  Evelyne — to  console 
herself. 

"Listen,  my  dear,  how  pretty  you  were  then 
already.  This  is  what  decided  Monsieur  Gi- 
mel and  me.  Oh!  how  we  weighed  each  word: 
'Two  candidates  appear  to  me  to  have  different 
chances  to  be  proposed  with  a  view  to  adoption : 
No.  149,007.  A  beautiful  child,  blonde,  strong 
for  her  age.' "  She  was  beaming.  Evelyne  behind 
her  said : 

"Let  us  go,  if  you  don't  mind.  Good-bye, 
Monsieur." 

"Mademoiselle!" 

She  felt  that  he  remained  in  the  opening  of 
the  door  on  the  threshold  and  that  he  was  follow- 
ing with  his  glance  this  abandoned  one,  who 
would  suffer  all  her  life  for  the  fault  of  an  un- 
known woman.  Poor  Evelyne,  the  smiling  one! 
At  least,  no  one  had  seen  her  weep ;  she  would  not 
weep;  she  walked  very  rapidly  to  avoid  the  ques- 
tions of  the  one  who  had  adopted  her,  who  trotted 
behind  her.  Two  nurses,  a  clerk  of  the  hospital 
and  three  silly  girls  on  the  stairway  stepped  aside 
and  were  silent  a  moment  to  allow  this  sorrow  to 
pass.  One  of  the  women  remarked : 

"Why  is  she  in  half-mourning?    Her  grief  must 


MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL     75 

be  very  recent.  Her  face  is  all  drawn  by  suffer- 
ing!" 

Madame  Gimel  had  also  her  share  in  this  grief. 
She  suffered  most  of  all  from  this  diminution  of 
tenderness  and  respect  which  she  remarked  since 
the  evening  before  in  the  young  girl. 

"You  try  to  act  the  part  of  a  mother,"  she 
thought,  "you  love  with  a  love  equal  to  a  mother's 
love,  but  devotion  counts  but  little  with  chil- 
dren whom  you  have  only  loved ;  it  is  necessary  to 
give  them  birth." 

The  conversation  on  the  street  was  limited  to 
words  exchanged  in  haste : 

"Take  care  of  the  auto." 

"I  see  it." 

"It  is  going  to  rain!" 

"Probably." 

"A  storm." 

"Yes." 

Evelyne  and  Madame  Gimel  going  down  Vic- 
toria Avenue,  took,  to  return  home  and  without 
paying  any  attention,  the  quai  of  the  Megisserie, 
and  the  quai  of  the  Louvre.  There,  as  Evelyne 
turned  obliquely  to  the  right: 

"Do  you  want  to  go  back  by  the  rue  de  Rivoli? 
It  is  cooler  here." 

"No,  I  am  going  to  Saint-Germain-l'Auxer- 
rois." 

Madame  Gimel  was  amazed  and  she  was  still 
more  so  when  she  saw  Evelyne  ask  an  employee 
of  the  church  if  the  attending  priest  was  there, 
when  she  followed  her  into  the  sacristy  and  heard 
the  following  conversation: 


76  THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

"Monsieur  PAbbe",  can  you  have  a  mass  said 
for  a  woman  whom  you  have  not  known,  whose 
name  you  do  not  even  know,  nothing  about  her, 
nothing?" 

"Certainly,  Mademoiselle;  it  is  enough  that 
she  has  existed  and  that  your  thought  attributes 
the  merit  to  her." 

"  Then,  I  beg  you  to  say  a  mass  for  my  unknown 
mother." 

"Very  well,  Mademoiselle.  Do  you  wish  it  on 
any  fixed  day?" 

"No." 

She  handed  the  abbe*  three  francs,  who  said : 

"But  it  is  not  so  much,  Mademoiselle." 

Evelyne  had  already  left  the  sacristy.  At  the 
door  she  stopped  upon  the  steps  before  the  gra- 
ting and,  when  she  felt  that  the  maternal  shadow 
had  rejoined  her,  she  said: 

"Mamma" — Madame  Gimel  found  the  return 
of  that  word  sweet — "Mamma,  I  ask  your  pardon 
if  I  have  wounded,  pained,  astonished  you.  I 
have  not  quite  had  my  heart  nor  my  brain  since 
yesterday.  I  will  recover  them,  but  I  only  ask 
of  you  one  thing — not  to  pity  me.  That  would 
lessen  my  courage.  And  do  not  even  ask  me 
what  I  am  thinking  of.  .  .  ." 

Madame  Gimel  kissed  her,  standing  there  on 
the  steps,  and  that  was  her  answer,  her  way  of 
taking  an  oath. 


MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL     77 

IV. 

THE  DRILL  AT  BAGATELLE. 

Three  companies  of  infantry  were  drilling  at 
six  o'clock  in  the  morning,  on  the  12th  of  August, 
on  the  turf  of  Bagatelle. 

They  were  not  in  full  strength,  and  one  of  the 
three  spectators  following  the  evolutions  of  the 
troops — I  speak  only  of  manifest  witnesses — 
had  just  counted,  in  all,  one  hundred  and  fifty- 
three  men,  jotting  down  this  figure  in  a  note-book 
in  the  midst  of  abbreviated  memoranda.  It  was 
Colonel  Ridault.  The  two  other  observers,  who 
did  not  take  notes,  were  two  Apaches,  lying  at 
the  end  of  the  turf,  their  legs  doubled  up,  their 
linen  sandals  waving  at  the  end  of  their  balanced 
feet. 

The  colonel,  coming  without  being  expected 
or  invited,  left  his  horse  on  the  road,  taking  his 
stand  by  the  side  of  the  avenue  leading  to  the 
chateau.  Standing  and  front  view,  he  had  still  a 
fine  military  figure;  in  profile,  you  saw  the  cir- 
cumflex accent  too  much.  He  was  growing  stout 
and  he  deplored  the  fact. 

But  he  did  nothing  to  prevent  it  and  continued 
to  dine  often  in  town.  He  was  much  sought 
after.  Colonel  Ridault  supported  the  govern- 
ment and  suffered  from  it  only  in  what  he  called 
"his  line."  He  knew  that  his  opinions,  especially 
those  that  were  attributed  to  him,  were  a  hin- 
drance to  his  career.  Just  what  were  the  opinions 


78  THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

of  Colonel  Ridault?  He  would  have  been  em- 
barrassed to  have  told.  Endowed  with  a  spirit 
of  contradiction,  which  he  had  not  exercised  with- 
out losing  something  of  his  best-reasoned  and 
most  cherished  ideas,  it  might  be  said  that  he 
had  only  one  conviction,  only  one  passion,  only 
one  idea  which  he  himself  never  criticised:  the 
army.  This  injured  him  with  the  civilian  offi- 
cials who  disposed  of  grades.  He  was  too  much  a 
soldier  in  a  time  when  they  did  not  fight.  This 
old  bachelor,  who  showed  but  a  discreet  sym- 
pathy for  the  trials  of  people  of  the  world,  be- 
came paternal,  ridiculously  tender  at  times,  when  it 
concerned  one  of  his  officers  or  one  of  his  soldiers. 
His  pay  was  dissipated  in  loans,  that  is  to  say,  in 
gifts.  The  head  round,  moustache  straight,  grey, 
and  fair,  eyes  blue,  chin  always  a  little  raised, 
Colonel  Ridault  never  laughed  in  uniform.  He 
permitted  himself  to  joke  only  in  the  evening, 
judging  that  that  was,  like  the  good  dinner,  the 
repose  of  a  strong  man.  Long  ago  people  had 
said  of  him:  "There  goes  a  future  great  gen- 
eral." Now  they  said:  "Eighteen  juniors  have 
been  promoted  over  his  head !  In  fifteen  months, 
he  will  be  retired  as  a  colonel.  It  is  ended." 
Colonel  Ridault  had  more  difficulty  than  public 
opinion  in  accepting  the  situation.  However,  he 
began  to  make  his  plans  known,  among  his  friends, 
for  this  approaching  period.  With  no  relatives, 
except  some  distant  cousins,  with  whom  he  had 
quarrelled  on  hunting  questions,  the  colonel  would 
retire  to  a  country  house  in  the  south,  near  Ville- 
franche,  and  there  he  would  be  able  to  economise 


MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL     79 

enough  to  enable  him  to  pass  the  three  beautiful 
spring  months  in  Paris.  "  In  the  meantime, "  said 
he,  "I  shall  continue  the  task  of  my  life,  which  is 
to  enforce  discipline." 

The  colonel  inspected  the  three  companies  at- 
tentively for  ten  minutes,  when,  taking  advan- 
tage of  an  interval  of  repose,  he  called : 

"  Lieutenant  Morand?  " 

The  lieutenant  stepped  out  from  a  group  of 
officers  and  non-commissioned  officers  and  came 
double-quick  time,  holding  his  sabre  in  his  left 
hand.  It  was  soon  done,  he  jumped  from  the 
turf  on  the  sand  of  the  path,  and  took  the  posi- 
tion of  the  inferior  before  the  superior. 

"You  are  acting  as  captain  of  the  company?" 

"Yes,  Colonel,  I  am  the  ranking  officer." 

"How  many  men  are  there?" 

"Forty-eight  in  my  company;  one  hundred  and 
fifty-one  in  the  three." 

"That  is  an  error;  I  counted  one  hundred  and 
fifty-three;  you  have  some  on  sick  report?" 

"Five  in  all,  Colonel;  but  the  garrison  duty, 
the  fatigue  duty,  the  officers " 

"Tricks  also,  isn't  it  so?  You  will  send  me,  as 
soon  as  you  have  returned,  the  total  strength, 
present  and  absent." 

The  lieutenant  gave  a  sign  of  assent.  The 
colonel  reached  out  his  hand  to  him  then : 

"Monsieur  Morand,  you  have  not  been  losing 
at  cards?" 

The  serious  face  of  the  lieutenant  relaxed  for 
a  second . 

"No,  Colonel." 


80  THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

"You  have  no' difficulties  with  your  superior 
officers?" 

"None." 

"Nothing  in  the  profession  which  frets  you?" 

"Nothing." 

"You  are  lucky!  All  the  same  you  have  your 
troubles,  that  is  plain;  everybody  remarks  it; 
your  captain  told  me  that  you  no  longer  spoke  a 
word  outside  of  the  service.  I  know  that  troubles 
not  connected  with  the  service  are  none  of  my 
business;  I  have  no  remedy  for  them,  unless  the 
friendship  of  an  old  man  may  be  of  some  use — 
and  that  rarely  happens." 

Morand,  who  had  great  powers  of  self-control, 
did  not  let,  at  first,  anything  of  what  he  thought 
appear.  Then  his  guarded  eyes  became  softer; 
something,  an  icy  barrier  of  hardness  and  of  re- 
serve, fell  away. 

"I  have  indeed,  a  counsel  that  I  would  like  to 
ask  of  you,  my  Colonel." 

"Continue,  my  dear  fellow." 

He  made  a  sign  to  the  officers,  who  were  look- 
ing on,  a  hundred  paces  distant  on  the  turf,  to 
continue  the  drill;  and  he  began  walking  on  the 
gravel  of  the  still  deserted  path,  on  the  right 
of  the  lieutenant,  who  spoke,  his  eyes  fixed  on 
the  distant  horizon.  They  walked  some  hundred 
paces  from  north  to  south,  faced  about,  and  then 
began  again.  Second  Lieutenant  Leguille,  Adju- 
tant Pratt,  and  Lieutenant  Roy,  from  the  distance, 
said  to  each  other:  "He  is  a  lucky  fellow,  that 
Morand !  And  the  worst  of  it  is  that  he  will  not 
tell  us  a  thing.  We  shall  never  know  whether  the 


MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL     81 

colonel  has  confided  the  secret  of  the  mobilisation 
to  him,  or  inquired  about  his  grandfather!" 

Colonel  Ridault  did  not  speak,  did  not  ask  a 
question :  he  listened.  Neither  of  them  made  ges- 
tures. An  attentive  observer  might  have  noted 
a  certain  resemblance  of  bearing  and  gait  between 
this  young,  slender  man  and  this  other,  who  had 
grown  stout,  but  was  yet  capable  of  feeling  en- 
thusiasm and  especially  that  impulse  which  made 
sometimes  the  one,  sometimes  the  other,  raise  his 
head,  leading  them  to  seek  points  on  the  horizon 
where  sad  eyes  might  wander  without  danger  of 
tears  or  of  betrayal.  Monsieur  Ridault  scarcely 
spoke,  or  did  so  merely  to  start  Morand  with  a 
phrase  like:  "And  after?"  "And  what  does  your 
mother  think?"  Oftenest,  he  only  uttered  an  en- 
couraging monosyllable:  "Good!" 

Morand  finished  and  waited  for  the  judgment 
as  if  he  had  been  before  a  council  of  war.  Nothing 
came.  The  words  stuck  in  the  colonel's  throat 
and  choked  him. 

"I  repeat  my  question,  Colonel:  is  it  not  your 
opinion  that  there  is  nothing  to  be  done,  that 
I  would  never  succeed  in  having  a  foundling 
admitted  into  the  society  of  the  regiment?" 

"  No,  nothing  to  be  done,  except  what  you  have 
done.  I  am  sorry  for  you.  Give  me  your  hand. 
And  renew  your  betrothal  with  the  army.  Au 
revoir!" 


82  THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

V. 

THE  12TH  OF  AUGUST. 

Evelyne  was  as  good  as  her  word;  she  did  not 
weep;  she  never  alluded  to  the  hard  blow  which 
had  struck  her  youth;  she  did  not  even  complain 
of  life  in  vague  terms,  so  as  not  to  enter,  by  that 
wide  road,  into  the  paths  to  which  we  all  return  so 
willingly  to  wound  ourselves  on  the  same  stones 
and  the  same  thorns.  Something  had  died  in 
her,  her  gaiety;  in  spite  of  her  resolute  will, 
Evelyne  did  not  laugh  any  more. 

Her  two  associates  at  Maclarey's  bank  had  no- 
ticed this  from  the  first  day,  but  they  had  not 
permitted  themselves  to  make  offensive  allusions 
until  the  second,  when  they  saw  that  it  continued. 
Mademoiselle  Raymonde  had  ended  by  guessing 
that  Evelyne  was  suffering  from  a  trouble  without 
remedy,  as  she  suffered,  herself,  from  the  wear 
and  tear  of  life.  In  the  first  week  of  August,  at 
the  end  of  a  stifling  day,  she  had  joked  with 
Mademoiselle  Marthe  about  the  stormy  loves  of 
Evelyne  Gimel.  The  latter  fingered  her  machine 
softly  and  did  not  listen.  Suddenly,  Mademoi- 
selle Raymonde,  who  was  deciphering  a  page  of 
stenography,  stopped,  crumpled  up  the  paper, 
threw  it  against  the  wall,  and,  mopping  her  fore- 
head, eyes  and  throat,  rested,  dulled  and  panting, 
on  her  chair  like  a  hunted  animal.  She  sat  for  an 
hour  without  making  a  movement  other  than  with 
her  right  hand,  which  waved  her  moist  handker- 


MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL     83 

chief,  like  a  fan,  before  her  wan  and  drawn  face. 
At  the  moment  when  six  o'clock  struck,  she  said, 
addressing  herself  to  Evelyne : 

"I  am  worn  out!  I  have  no  longer  strength 
even  to  amuse  myself,  my  courage  is  gone.  And 
you?" 

"Oh!  I?  When  I  have  no  more  courage,  I  act 
as  if  I  had  it." 

The  stupid  Marthe  had  laughed.  But  Ray- 
monde,  comprehending  that  a  deep  grief  alone 
could  utter  words  like  these,  had  gone  out  with 
Evelyne. 

"My  poor  friend,"  she  had  said,  "I  know 
men;  they  are  all  scoundrels  alike.  Yours  has 
left  you?  Tell  me  about  it,  you  will  do  me  good." 

Evelyne  did  not  tell  anything;  but,  from  that 
day,  she  regained  the  favour  of  the  "first  sten- 
ographer" of  Maclarey's  bank. 

At  home,  Evelyne  and  Madame  Gimel  met, 
each  evening,  with  the  same  apparent  joy  and  the 
same  greetings  as  in  the  past.  The  young  girl  had 
resumed  the  habit  of  saying  "mamma,"  and  the 
other  had  never  for  an  instant  ceased  to  say,  "my 
child,  my  daughter."  They  lied,  both  of  them; 
they  could  not  utter  these  words  without  think- 
ing of  the  truth,  which  was  different  and  cruel. 
Two  neighbouring  solitudes:  that  was  what  their 
home  life  had  suddenly  become.  And  no  effort 
of  will  prevailed  against  the  recollection,  at  every 
instant  recalled.  Evelyne  reminded  herself  of 
the  continued  cares,  the  generosity,  the  tenderness, 
of  Madame  Gimel.  "I  love  her  just  as  much," 
she  thought.  Madame  Gimel  asked  herself: 


84  THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

"Have  I  not  always  known  what  Evelyne  has 
just  learned?  We  will  continue  to  be  for  each 
other  what  we  have  been."  Together,  yes,  but 
separated;  the  air  from  without  ran  between 
them.  Conversation  became  less  spontaneous. 
They  no  longer  confided  everything  to  each  other. 
Even  the  two  troubles  were  different.  Madame 
Gimel,  who  had  more  tenderness  than  imagina- 
tion, thought  the  theatre  might  distract  Evelyne. 
There  was  only  the  Theatre  Franc,  ais;  the  Opera 
Comique  was  closed  during  the  dog-days.  But 
Britannicus  was  very  heavy,  after  a  day  of  sten- 
ography. And  then,  would  that  audience  of 
strangers  and  insignificant  provincials  interest 
Evelyne? 

"How  I  regret  Mignon,"  cried  Madame  Gimel, 


She  fell  back  on  cinematographs  and  the  small 
theatres  still  open.  They  organised  parties  for 
the  third  gallery,  or  the  third  box  at  the  side. 
To  do  this  they  had  to  break  open  a  savings-bank, 
shaped  like  an  apple,  in  which  the  savings  des- 
tined for  a  trip  to  Dieppe  reposed.  Sometimes 
Evelyne  was  amused,  and  at  other  times  she 
seemed  so  utterly  indifferent  to  the  piece  to  which 
she  was  supposed  to  be  listening  that  Madame 
Gimel  thought  : 

"Poor  dear,  she  has  her  own  play  in  her  heart, 
and  it  is  not  a  gay  one!" 

An  excursion  to  an  aunt's,  living  at  Charenton  ; 
a  dinner  at  the  house  of  a  friend  of  the  late  Mon- 
sieur Gimel,  in  the  direction  of  Bercy;  and  some 
"surprises"  in  the  shape  of  desserts  when  they 


MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL     85 

dined  at  the  rue  Saint-Honor^;  and  flowers,  roses, 
carnations,  a  bunch  of  mignonette;  but  nothing 
brought  back  the  old  smile  any  more,  the  one  which 
said:  "Life  is  sweet,  Mamma!  Watch  me  live!" 

Madame  Gimel  thought  of  nothing  else.  "  Such 
a  fine  offer!  A  handsome  man  and  an  officer! 
Mine  was  only  an  adjutant.  It  is  true,  he  was  in 
the  Guard !  All  that  has  been  lost,  because  a  father 
and  a  mother  were  lacking — I  mean  their  names. 
I  understand  Evelyne's  refusal.  For  it  was  she 
who  withdrew,  she  who  was  not  willing!  She  is 
proud,  but  it  is  killing  her!" 

She  was  so  filled  with  this  idea,  and  so  unhappy 
at  having  no  one  to  confide  in,  that,  without 
saying  a  word  to  Evelyne,  she  went  to  talk  with 
Madame  Maule"on.  The  former  saleswoman, 
still  "distinguished"  in  her  appearance,  and  Ma- 
dame Mauleon,  simply  affable  and  easy,  quickly 
agreed  and  gossiped  for  a  long  time.  As  she  went 
out,  Madame  Gimel  said,  with  rather  an  affected 
air: 

"  Do  it,  if  you  dare,  my  dear  Madame  Maule"on. 
I  should  never  dare." 

The  next  day,  however,  she  returned  to  the 
creamery  of  the  rue  Boissy  d'Anglas.  It  was  in 
the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  the  hour  which  be- 
longed to  the  flies,  to  the  noise  of  the  street,  and 
the  nap  of  the  mistress.  Madame  Gimel  seated 
herself  on  the  left  of  the  white  desk,  where,  so 
often,  Evelyne  had  leaned;  she  drew  a  paper  out 
of  her  reticule,  which  she  unfolded  and  began  to 
read,  with  a  little  affectation  and  much  emotion, 
articulating  better  than  actors  at  the  Come'die, 


86  THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

lowering  the  voice  and  sighing,  without  meaning 
to  do  so,  punctuating  phrases  sometimes  with  a 
move  of  her  silk-gloved  hand.  Madame  Mau- 
le*on  listened  seriously,  her  chin  resting  on  her 
hands,  her  vague  eyes  ready  to  fill  with  tears. 
As  her  new  friend  read,  the  mistress  of  the  cream- 
ery grew  excited;  a  smile  of  content,  of  enjoyment, 
of  approval,  distended  her  lips,  revealing  her 
teeth,  which  were  fine. 

There  passed,  after  that,  fifteen  long  days,  dur- 
ing which  Madame  Gimel  was  strangely  agitated. 
She  had  such  long  fits  of  abstraction,  looking  at 
"her  daughter,"  that  the  latter  asked  her: 

"What  is  the  matter?  What  are  you  thinking 
of?  I  am  sure  that  you  have  not  heard  one  word 
of  what  I  have  said  to  you." 

It  was  true,  she  scarcely  slept,  she  grew  thin 
and  pale,  so  much  so  that  Evelyne,  one  Sunday, 
herself  broke  the  silence  which  she  had  imposed. 
Madame  Gimel,  returned  from  a  rather  short 
walk  which  they  were  accustomed  to  take  to- 
gether, between  four  and  five,  when  the  weather 
was  fine — the  Champs  Elysees,  around  the  Arc 
de  Triomphe,  and  returning  by  Avenue  de  Fried- 
land — stopped  at  the  corner  of  the  rue  Faubourg 
Saint-Honore  and,  seeing  an  omnibus  coming 
down,  she  said : 

"Let  us  take  this  to  the  Filles-du-Calvaire;  I 
am  tired  out." 

Then,  between  the  two  women,  jolted  upon  the 
same  bench,  quite  in  the  rear  of  the  bus,  words 
were  exchanged  which  the  other  passengers  did 
not  hear: 


MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL     87 

"Tell  me,  Mamma,  is  it  on  my  account  that 
you  are  suffering?" 

"Yes." 

"You  do  not  blame  me,  however,  for  what  I 
did?" 

"No,  my  poor  darling!  You  acted  like  a — " 
she  hesitated  for  the  comparison,  which  made  a 
little  silence.  "  Like  a  saint !" 

"You  do  not  blame  Monsieur  Morand  either?" 

"No." 

"Then,  since  nothing  can  be  changed,  you  must 
cure  yourself  like  me.  You  must  take  care  of 
yourself,  in  the  first  place.  This  is  the  season  for 
the  seashore.  I  offer  you,  from  my  savings  and 
your  own,  a  ticket  for  Trouville.  You  will  go 
and  pass  a  week  or  two  there,  and  you  will  come 
home  cured!" 

"And  you?" 

"I?  I  will  keep  at  work,  I  do  not  need  a 
change."  To  Evelyne's  great  surprise,  Madame 
Gimel,  a  moment  after,  resumed,  gazing  through 
the  arched  window: 

"My  child,  I  am  expecting  a  remedy,  which  I 
have  asked  for  and  which  does  not  come." 

That  evening  they  both  felt  so  tired  that  they 
went  to  bed  without  having  dined.  And  they 
realised  that  silence  is  worth  more  than  half  con- 
fidences. 

Until  Monday,  the  12th,  no  incident  broke  the 
monotony  of  work  at  the  bank  or  of  the  life  at  home. 
Evelyne  had  breakfasted  as  usual  at  Madame 
Mauleon's  creamery;  but  since  the  project  of 
marriage  had  been  abandoned,  she  avoided  talk- 


88  THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

ing  with  the  mistress  of  the  creamery,  contenting 
herself  with  a  friendly  nod  on  entering  and  leav- 
ing. It  was  exactly  three  forty-five  when  the 
sound  of  military  music  blew  into  the  room  where 
the  stenographers  were  at  work  and  stopped  the 
other  music  short.  Mademoiselle  Raymonde  was 
the  first  to  rise;  she  executed  a  galop  step,  shaking 
out  her  skirt,  and  said : 

"I  am  going.  I  never  miss  going  to  look  at 
them!" 

Mademoiselle  Marthe  said: 

"I  dislike  their  trade,  but  I  am  going  all  the 


same." 


Evelyne  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  followed 
her  companions.  The  three  young  women  ran  to 
the  end  of  the  corridor  at  the  left,  and  leaned  out  of 
the  window.  A  regiment  was  passing,  marching 
up  the  Boulevard  Malesherbes,  all  the  brass  in- 
struments playing.  The  First  company,  —  the 
Second  company,  the  men  marched  quickly, — the 
Third  company,  with  an  officer  as  file-closer  with 
the  nervous  gait  of  an  Alpine  climber,  a  tall  man 
with  square  chin,  short  moustache,  and  flat  cheeks, 
a  young  man  who  kept  his  eyes  fixed,  as  the  regu- 
lations require,  twenty  paces  to  the  front,  arrived 
opposite  Maclarey's  bank,  and  turning  his  head, 
saw  the  three  young  women  at  the  window,  saluted 
with  his  sword,  and  marched  on.  The  act  was 
quick,  but  it  was  seen. 

"Well,  there,  my  dear!  it  was  you  that  he  sa- 
luted?" 

"No,  indeed,  it  was  you!" 

"It  was  you!" 


MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL     89 

An  immoderate  burst  of  laughter  from  Ray- 
monde  and  from  Marthe.  The  window  is  closed. 
What  matters  the  rest  of  the  parade?  They  go 
back  to  the  room  of  the  copyists.  Mademoiselle 
Raymonde  has  no  trouble  in  guessing  the  emo- 
tion of  Evelyne.  She  surprised,  at  the  very  mo- 
ment when  the  officer  saluted,  an  involuntary 
movement  of  recoil  from  her  neighbour.  Aston- 
ishment? Protest?  Anger?  In  any  case  proof 
and  confession. 

"You  are  not  acquainted  with  him,  Marthe?" 

"No." 

"Then,  it  is  you  that  he  saluted,  Evelyne, 
there  is  not  the  slightest  doubt.  Why  do  you 
deny  it?  He  is  very  good-looking,  your  lieu- 
tenant." 

"You  must  introduce  him  to  us." 

"  Does  he  come  to  wait  for  you  when  you  leave 
the  bank?" 

Evelyne  denied  shamelessly.  She  had  wit  and 
she  became  animated — the  machines  did  not 
click  very  rapidly — and  her  two  companions  be- 
gan to  doubt,  when,  under  pretext  of  orders  to 
transmit,  of  information  to  give  to  the  service  of 
stenography,  Monsieur  Ame'de'e,  and  another  as- 
sistant secretary,  and  Monsieur  Honore"  Pope,  the 
cashier  with  oily  hair,  one  after  the  other,  put  in 
an  appearance  in  the  room  of  the  stenographers. 
They  had  no  doubts.  Through  the  grating  of  the 
ground-floor  window  they  had  seen  the  lieuten- 
ant's salute ;  had  heard  the  burst  of  laughter  from 
the  window  above;  an  infallible  instinct  warned 
them  that  but  one  of  the  three  women  would  have 


90  THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

been  saluted  in  that  way  by  an  officer!  This 
Evelyne,  who  pleased  every  one  and  whom  no  one 
appeared  to  please.  Monsieur  Amede'e,  as  usual, 
came  sliding  over  the  floor — he  was  a  man  of  the 
world;  he  had,  between  his  eyebrows,  the  crease 
of  the  man  burdened  with  important  interests;  in 
his  eyes,  that  little  will-o'-the-wisp  flame  which 
belied  the  wrinkle,  the  gravity,  and  the  busy  look. 
He  bent  over  Mademoiselle  Raymonde's  table, 
but  he  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  Evelyne,  engaged  and 
bending  over  her  machine;  and,  on  going  away, 
provoked  at  not  having  been  the  object  of  the 
slightest  attention: 

"My  compliments,  Mademoiselle  Evelyne;  he 
is  a  fine  fellow." 

Evelyne  blushed,  turned  her  head;  he  had 
glided  back,  gained  the  door  and  disappeared. 

It  was  the  turn  of  the  assistant  secretary,  who 
smiled  with  a  knowing  air,  saying : 

"  Mesdemoiselles,  I  salute  you." 

Then,  the  second  cashier,  Monsieur  Honore 
Pope,  came  in,  carrying  a  bundle  of  papers  under 
his  athletic  arm,  weakened  by  fat. 

"Come,  here  is  work  to  keep  you  going,  my 
children!"  said  he. 

Purposely  he  placed  the  bundle  on  Evelyne's 
table  and  took  a  long  time  to  unfasten  the  strap, 
which  permitted  him  to  touch  Evelyne's  elbow. 
At  the  second  touch,  the  latter  got  farther  off 
without  stopping  her  work.  The  big  man,  who 
only  spoke  with  half  of  his  mouth,  the  other 
remaining  closed,  said,  aiming  at  the  left  and 
downward: 


MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL     91 

"It  is  not  worth  while  to  put  on  such  airs, 
Mademoiselle  Evelyne!  You  are  known  now!" 

"Old  satyr!  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
yourself!" 

"What  did  you  say?" 

"I  said,  old  satyr!" 

"  Very  well !  You  will  hear  from  me,  Mademoi- 
selle Evelyne!" 

"Possibly  I  may,  but  I  will  never  ask  for  news 
of  you,  Monsieur  Honore  Pope,  and  if  Monsieur 
Maclarey  questions  me,  I  will  tell  him  why  you 
attack  me!" 

She  rose.  The  cashier  assumed  an  air  of  of- 
fended dignity;  picked  the  bundle  of  papers  up 
and  carried  it  to  Mademoiselle  Raymonde,  who 
smiled  affably.  But  scarcely  had  the  man  dis- 
appeared than  the  same  words,  from  the  table 
in  front,  which  was  Raymonde's,  and  from  the 
table  in  the  rear,  where  Marthe  worked,  reached 
Evelyne's  ears : 

"Come!  come,  don't  be  rash!  You  are  right, 
he  is  odious!  But,  all  the  same,  it  is  not  so  easy 
to  find  work!" 

Evelyne  sat  down  to  her  copying  again.  But 
at  a  quarter  before  six  she  put  on  her  hat : 

"So  much  the  worse  if  they  see  me;  so  much 
the  worse  if  they  dismiss  me !  I  am  going  home ! " 

She  went  straight  through  the  rue  Saint-Honore. 
She  was  furious  with  Honore"  Pope;  but  most  of 
all  furious  with  Louis  Morand.  Madame  Gimel 
provoked  an  outburst  from  her  by  saying: 

"Mademoiselle,  I  have  a  little  surprise " 

:And  I,  I  have  an  incredible  stupidity  on  the 


n 


92  THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

part  of  Monsieur  Louis  Morand  to  tell  you,  unless 
I  ought  to  call  it  a  cruelty,  of  which  I  believed 
him  incapable " 

"But  what  is  it,  Evelyne — what  has  happened 
again?  At  what  time?" 

"At  three  forty-five  this  afternoon.  A  way  of 
calling  attention  to  me  which  may  have  seemed 
to  him  a  fine  jest,  but  which  has  let  loose  the  whole 
kennel  of  the  bank  on  me,  even  that  fat  imbecile 
Honore"  Pope,  whom  I  told  what  I  thought  of 
him " 

"Oh!  Evelyne!" 

"Yes,  just  what  I  thought,  and  so  plainly  that, 
at  this  moment,  I  may  perhaps  be  discharged 
from  Maclarey's." 

Madame  Gimel  was  neither  puzzled  nor  even 
very  agitated. 

"That  would  seem  to  me  unfortunate.  Let  us 
see:  tell  me  all  just  as  it  happened." 

In  five  minutes  Evelyne  told  the  story  of  the 
afternoon.  While  she  was  talking  and  as  she  used 
very  energetic  language,  the  young  girl  watched 
the  countenance  of  Madame  Gimel  with  stupefac- 
tion. Madame  Gimel's  face  was  beaming.  This 
sick,  emaciated,  anxious  woman  appeared  to  listen 
with  pleasure,  in  any  case  with  a  kind  of  ironic 
placidity,  to  the  story  which  Evelyne  related. 

"My  child,"  she  interrupted,  "you  can't  under- 
stand. There  is  an  explanation.  I  have  announced 
a  little  surprise  to  you;  that  was  to  spare  you;  it  is 
a  great  one." 

"You  have  a  lottery  ticket  which  has  won 
twenty-five  francs?" 


MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL     93 

"Better  than  that;  you  will  forgive  me " 

"Go  on  just  the  same." 

"Evelyne,  I  took  upon  myself  to  write  to  Ma- 
dame Morand." 

"Do  you  mean  to  the  mother  of  Monsieur 
Morand,  who  came  here?  To  the  Madame  Mo- 
rand,  who  lives  at  Bugey?" 

"The  same.  I  told  her  that  you  loved  her  son 
still." 

"But  you  know  nothing  about  it!" 

"  I  told  her  that  you  were  a  remarkable  woman, 
a  charming  character,  an  industrious  and  a  poor 
child,  one  who  suffers  too  much 

She  stopped  breathless,  unable  to  utter  the  re- 
maining words.  Evelyne  listened,  pale  and  be- 
wildered. 

"  The  letter  was  beautiful,  I  assure  you ;  Madame 
Mauleon  told  me  it  was.  My  dear  child,  what  I 
dared  not  hope  for  has  happened !  Madame  Mo- 
rand has  answered.  I  have  found  a  true  mother; 
I  have  her  letter;  take  it,  read  it,  my  treasure!  I 
am  not  able!" 

She  began  to  sob,  leaning  back  in  the  low  chair, 
happy  at  last  to  cry  before  a  witness,  which  is  a 
confession,  a  sharing  of  your  trouble;  happy,  now 
that  she  began  to  hope  and  that  she  could  give 
way  to  her  feelings  without  the  risk  of  agitating 
too  much  her  adored  Evelyne,  her  child  with 
the  nut-brown  hair,  reading  the  letter  in  front  of 
her. 

Evelyne  was  reading  a  letter,  written  in  a 
fine  slanting  hand,  without  flourishes  or  erasures, 
upon  a  sheet  of  paper  edged  with  black. 


94  THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

"LE  HAUT-CLOS,  August  10,  190—. 
"MADAME: 

"I  was  deeply  affected  on  receiving  your  let- 
ter. The  more  so  as,  almost  by  the  same  mail,  I 
received  one  from  my  Louis,  so  unhappy,  so  gloomy 
and  so  resolute,  alas!  that  I  would  have  liked  to 
have  flown  to  Paris  to  advise  him  and  console  him, 
to  keep  him  from  taking  a  resolution,  very  noble 
of  him,  but  which  would  kill  me.  I  know  him  too 
well  not  to  know  that  the  distance  from  word  to 
deed  is  short  with  him.  He  wishes  to  exchange 
with  an  officer  of  the  French  Congo  or  the  Soudan. 
He  has  already  made  application  for  the  exchange. 
I  shall  lose  him,  unless  I  succeed  in  making  pos- 
sible a  plan  which  is  fraught  with  impossibilities. 
As  for  him,  he  has  given  up  seeking.  But  I  am  a 
mother;  I  still  am  seeking.  I  have  thought  so 
much  about  it  and  I  will  add,  that  you  may  know 
me  better,  I  have  prayed  over  it  so  much,  that  I 
cannot  despair.  I  am  still  in  darkness,  but  I  am 
searching  for  light.  I  will  confess  to  you  very 
frankly  that,  without  my  son's  knowledge,  I  have 
made  inquiries  about  you  and  about  Mademoi- 
selle Evelyne.  The  answers  have  been  as  favour- 
able as  I  could  hope  or  fear,  I  hardly  know  which 
of  the  two  words  fits.  I  wish  to  see  this  child, 
whom  cowardly  parents  have  abandoned.  She  will 
know,  if  we  must  forever  remain  strangers  to  each 
other,  that  I  do  not  think  that  I  have  the  right  to 
be  hard,  and  that  I  have  wished  to  see,  to  hear  and 
to  pity,  at  least,  the  one  whom  my  son  had  chosen. 
"  MADAME  THEODORE  MORAND. 

"P.S.    My  son  is  ignorant  of  my  step.    He  will 
not  be  at  home.    If  Mademoiselle  Evelyne  can 


MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL     95 

only  spend  the  day  at  Haut-Clos  she  may  arrive 
very  early.    I  rise  with  the  dawn." 

"Well!  Evelyne,  what  shall  I  answer?  She  is 
a  woman,  this  Madame  Morand,  she  is  a  true 
mother,  isn't  she?" 

"You  did  the  same  before  her,  Mamma,  and 
you  did  still  better!  You  could  not  know  what 
a  little  wretch  I  might  turn  out  and  yet  you  took 
me.  This  lady  wishes  only  to  have  an  interview 
with  me.  It  is  kind  of  her  all  the  same." 

All  the  old  intimacy,  and  gratitude  besides, 
was  found  in  these  words,  which  Madame  Gimel 
had  bent  forward  to  hear  and  to  which  she  lis- 
tened still.  Madame  Gimel  ceased  to  weep. 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  say  to  her?" 

Evelyne  reread  the  letter  and  raised  her  eyes 
to  the  light  of  the  street. 

"I  must  go,"  she  said. 

"  That  is  what  I  think.    When  shall  we  go?  " 

The  eyes,  which  were  wandering  over  the  roofs 
opposite,  lengthened  a  little  but  did  not  wholly 
smile. 

"  Mamma,  I  prefer  to  take  all  the  responsibility 
of  what  may  happen  on  myself.  If  I  make  a  mis- 
take, if  I  do  not  manage  well,  there  will  be  no  one 
but  myself  to  blame.  Let  me  go  alone.  You 
shall  be  informed  of  the  slightest  details,  I  promise 
you.  Next  Thursday  will  be  Assumption  Day;  I 
will  ask  Monsieur  Maclarey  for  leave.  If  necessary, 
Monsieur  Honore  Pope  will  indorse  it,  so  that  he 
may  appear  to  be  a  generous  man  without  rancour. 
We  will  pass  the  day  together,  Mamma,  and  I  will 


96  THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

leave  on  Thursday  evening.  I  hope  that  there  is 
an  evening  train  for  Bugey.  Just  where  is  Bugey, 
do  you  know?" 

"Here  is  your  small  school  atlas/'  said  Ma- 
dame Gimel,  "and  I  have  a  last  year's  time-table, 
too." 

They  spent  the  evening  in  arranging  the  jour- 
ney which  Evelyne  was  to  make,  and  in  anticipa- 
ting, and  in  fearing  that  it  would  not  be  a  pleasure. 
But,  nearly  always,  the  unknown  resolves  itself 
into  hope.  They  ended  by  being  a  little  hopeful. 
The  future,  the  way  in  which  they  pictured  it,  the 
words  of  welcome,  the  probable  questions,  the  ob- 
jections, all  these  things  echoed  in  this  room, 
where  two  poor  women,  one  young  and  the  other 
old,  were  talking,  eager  about  a  love  which  seemed 
to  be  reviving. 


VI. 

HAUT-CLOS. 

At  six  o'clock  on  Friday  morning,  August  16, 
Evelyne  descended  from  the  P.-L.-M.  train  at 
the  station  of  Artemare.  She  was  alone;  the 
morning  was  foggy;  you  could  see  only  a  small 
stony  knoll  on  the  left  of  the  road,  some  meadows 
on  the  right,  and  the  silhouettes  of  poplars  in  the 
fog.  Giving  her  ticket  to  the  station-master, 
Evelyne  asked: 

"Which  is  the  road  to  Linot,  Monsieur,  if  you 
please?  " 


MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL     97 

"Above  there,  Mademoiselle.  You  cross  the 
village — people  living  in  market-places  have  sim- 
ple villages — go  straight  ahead,  then  you  come  to 
a  path  which  mounts  to  Don;  Linot  is  on  the  hill 
above  Don." 

He  followed  with  his  eyes,  a  moment,  the  young 
girl,  very  simply  dressed,  but  with  her  hair  so  well 
arranged,  such  well-fitting  shoes,  and  who  walked 
so  daintily,  carrying  her  closed  parasol  on  her  left 
arm,  and  holding  in  her  right  hand  a  bag.  Her 
sailor  hat  trimmed  with  tulle,  her  fair  hair,  her 
slim,  straight  neck,  her  dress,  which  undulated 
right  and  left  to  the  sure  rhythm  of  the  Parisian 
step,  were  soon  but  a  moving  shadow  amongst 
others  which  were  motionless.  The  station-mas- 
ter went  inside.  Evelyne  crossed  the  village  of 
Artemare  and  took  the  road  which  rises  in  a 
steep  ascent  from  the  valley  of  Virieu  to  the  lofty 
valley  of  Valromey.  At  first  the  road  went  along 
by  the  side  of  perpendicular  rocks,  which  sup- 
port the  weight  of  the  high  plain  and  which  bar, 
in  a  straight  line,  like  the  dam  of  a  great,  dried- 
up  river,  the  whole  space  between  Mount  Colom- 
bier  and  the  mountain  of  Colere;  it  turned;  it 
passed  through  the  village  of  Don,  turned  again, 
and  stopped  on  the  edge  of  the  plateau.  When 
Evelyne  reached  that  point,  she  felt  that  the  air 
was  lighter,  the  fog  was  mingled  with  sunshine. 
There  were  several  roads,  and  some  foot-paths 
scaling  vineyards,  but  no  more  houses.  She  asked 
the  way  to  Linot  of  a  middle-aged  workman,  on  his 
knees  before  a  pile  of  stones,  who  took  off  his  glasses 
to  see  her  better,  and  seated  himself  upon  the 


98  THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

heels  of  his  wooden  shoes  with  a  slow  move- 
ment. 

"You  have  only  to  go  straight  to  the  station, 
my  pretty  one.  You  will  find  the  road  there. 
You  will  spoil  your  parasol  and  your  fine  little 
yellow  shoes  trying  to  climb  the  hill  as  we  do." 

A  laugh,  a  light  laugh,  rippling  like  a  line  of 
music,  rang  out  in  the  calm  morning  air. 

"How  good  your  country  air  is  to  breathe!" 
said  Evelyne,  flattered.  "If  I  could  breathe  the 
like  at  Paris  I  would  deny  myself  milk  every 
morning." 

"Then  you  are  from  Paris?" 

"Where  else  should  I  be  from?  Is  it  much 
farther  to  Haut-Clos?" 

"A  young  lady's  promenade!  Ah!  that  cursed 
Paris!  I  have  a  son  who  might  have  gone  there, 
if  he  had  wished.  But  here  he  is;  he  has  a  place 
at  Montpellier.  Cursed  Paris,  I  say,  all  the  same ! " 

He  put  his  glasses  back  on  his  nose  and  began 
breaking  stones  again;  the  noise  of  the  hammer 
and  that  of  Evelyne's  heels  on  the  dry,  convex 
road  echoed  together  for  a  little  time.  Soon  Eve- 
lyne moderated  her  Parisian  gait,  not  that  she 
felt  at  all  tired,  but  for  fear  of  being  red  on  arri- 
ving. It  was  half  past  seven  when  she  reached  the 
top  of  the  hill  of  Linot,  and  she  recognised  imme- 
diately, beyond  a  group  of  farm  buildings  and 
orchards,  upon  a  smooth  and  slightly  raised  part 
of  the  plateau,  the  house  where  she  was  expected. 
It  was  the  very  one  which  she  had  seen  in  the 
photograph,  and  of  which  Louis  Morand  had 
spoken  with  so  much  love  at  Madame  Mauleon's. 


MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL     99 

Only  the  lateral  facade  could  be  seen,  irregularly 
pierced  with  a  door,  with  one  large  window  and 
three  small  ones.  Even  on  this  side,  the  slate 
roof,  bent  down  on  account  of  snow,  made  a  blue 
triangle  across  the  top  of  the  white  gable.  The 
southern  fagade,  toward  the  plain  of  Artemare 
and  of  Virieu,  must  be  the  principal  one.  It 
looked  upon  a  sloping  garden,  surrounded  by  a 
hedge-row  of  trees,  at  whose  foot  there  was  a 
vineyard,  doubtless  the  vineyard  from  which  it 
received  the  name  of  Haut-Clos. 

Back  of  it  on  the  north  side,  Evelyne  recognised 
also  the  walnut-tree,  where  an  ivy-vine  was  climb- 
ing. It  grew  isolated,  protecting  the  house,  in  an 
uncultivated  piece  of  ground,  a  kind  of  pasture- 
land,  to  which  succeeded,  still  veiled  with  the 
fog,  strips  of  herbs  of  different  heights,  some 
green,  others  light,  whose  names  Evelyne  could 
not  have  told.  She  advanced  to  within  fifty 
yards,  and  listened  with  a  beating  heart.  De- 
spite the  letter,  which  said:  "I  rise  with  the 
dawn,"  how  could  she  dare  to  knock  or  to  ring  at 
the  door  of  that  house?  No  sound!  Seven 
thirty-five.  At  this  hour  her  companions  of  the 
bank  were  scarcely  awake,  and  Madame  Gimel 
had  not  yet  put  the  kettle  on  the  gas-stove. 

Evelyne  felt  her  heart  beat  less  quickly  and  the 
freshness  of  the  air  pulsate  through  her  lungs,  in 
the  veins  of  her  neck,  and  her  temples.  She  drew 
three  deep  breaths,  her  lungs  wide  open  and  tast- 
ing the  mountain  mist,  and  she  repeated: 

"How  good  the  air  is  here!" 

And  the  third  time  she  heard  a  step  behind 


100         THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

her.  A  woman  was  coming,  by  a  field  path, 
barely  marked,  between  a  patch  of  clover  and  a 
bed  of  stubble.  She  was  small,  rather  stout, 
dressed  in  mourning,  the  material  of  which  was  not 
new  and  the  cut  old;  she  had  bright  blue  eyes 
under  brown  lashes,  and  as  she  walked  she  looked 
at  Evelyne.  She  had  been  looking  at  her  for 
some  time,  no  doubt,  and  with  so  intent,  so  stead- 
fast a  gaze  that  her  whole  face  wore  an  expres- 
sion of  curiosity  and  intentness.  She  was  not 
preparing  to  smile.  When  she  was  within  a  few 
steps  of  the  young  girl  she  stopped  and  drew  a 
deep  breath  in  her  turn,  but  with  an  effort  and 
turning  very  pale,  like  one  whom  emotion  seizes 
and  stifles,  she  said : 

"  I  expected  to  be  here  before  you,  Mademoiselle. 
You  must  have  come  up  rapidly.  How  much  you 
resemble  the  description  that  he  gave  me!" 

Then  only  she  came  up  close  to  her  and  reached 
out  her  hand,  but  without  being  able  to  smile. 
Her  eyes,  which  were  looking  at  Evelyne,  were  try- 
ing to  read  a  whole  future  in  her,  and  they  were 
filled  with  anguish.  She  said : 

"Do  I  make  you  afraid?    You  are  so  pale." 

"I  think  that  we  are  both  afraid,  Madame. 
That  is  not  astonishing,  especially  in  my  case. 
And  it  is  true  that  I  am  afraid  of  you." 

"A  Parisienne!    I  thought  them  bolder  than 


we." 


"Oh!  being  a  Parisienne  makes  no  difference, 

when " 

"Say  on." 

"  When  one  loves,  Madame —    I  am  not  timid, 


MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL    101 

ordinarily,  but  to-day  it  is  another  thing.  I  come 
perhaps  to  learn  that  I  shall  displease  you." 

The  old  lady  replied  seriously : 

"I  shall  tell  you  so,  if  it  is  so.  Come,  you 
must  be  hungry." 

The  two  women  began  walking,  one  near  the 
other,  toward  the  house. 

"This  is  my  place,"  said  Madame  Morand;  "it 
is  not  large '' 

"The  country  must  be  pretty." 

"You  will  be  able  to  judge  of  it  later;  the  fog 
will  lift  in  half  an  hour.  Things  have  not  changed 
in  my  home  these  fifty  years  or  more.  But  those 
who  once  lived  here  with  me  have  left  me  alone! 
I  love  the  place  still  because  of  them;  anywhere 
else  I  should  be  a  little  more  alone.  My  room 
has  a  small  window  on  this  side  and  a  large  one 
on  the  side  of  the  low  valleys.  When  it  is  fine 
weather  I  can  watch  my  son  coming  up  to  Linot, 
almost  from  Virieu.  He  passes  three  weeks  every 
year  with  me.  That  is  my  provision  of  happi- 
ness for  the  eleven  months  which  follow — not  all 
of  it,  however!  I  am  never  bored." 

"Nor  I,  Madame,  except  when  Mademoiselle 
Raymonde  complains  of  fate." 

"Who  is  she?" 

"A  stenographer  like  myself  at  Maclarey's." 

Evelyne  was  taller,  by  half  a  head  at  least,  than 
Madame  Morand.  She  saw  the  commencement  of 
a  smile  upon  the  wrinkled  lips.  She  observed, 
without  danger  of  being  discovered,  from  the  cor- 
ner of  her  eye,  the  one  who  was  pointing  out  to 
her  the  house,  the  garden,  an$  the  vineyard. 


102         THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

"You  see  the  arbour  by  the  side  of  the  hedge, 
Mademoiselle?  It  is  there  that ' 

Evelyne  studied  this  face,  a  trifle  too  full,  wrin- 
kled in  circles  and  reduced  to  a  single  tone,  which 
the  blood  no  longer  vivified,  but  which  could  still 
turn  pale;  the  chapped  lips;  the  round,  common- 
place nose;  the  admirable  expression  of  the  eyes 
and  brow ;  one  of  those  transparent  brows,  through 
which  one  divines  the  upright  flame  of  the  mind ;  a 
serene  look  and  paring  of  the  tenderness  of  the 
soul,  before  which  the  world  is  like  a  thing  already 
past.  They  walked  for  some  hundred  paces: 
Madame  Morand  entered,  through  the  gate,  into 
a  part  of  the  enclosure  which  surrounded  the 
lateral  fagade  of  the  dwelling,  and  from  there 
into  the  kitchen,  where  the  maid,  a  tall  and  good- 
natured  girl  from  Isere,  drew  back  before  the 
Parisienne,  bending  to  one  side  to  see  her  dress 
better.  Madame  Morand  entered  first,  opening 
and  closing  the  doors,  which  had  great  locks. 

"Come  in  here,  Mademoiselle  Evelyne,"  she 
said  at  last;  "your  coffee  must  be  ready.  Yes, 
it  is.  Eat  first,  and  then  we  will  talk.  The  sun 
is  going  to  make  us  a  visit,  you  see  the  whole  gar- 
den is  bright." 

In  fact  the  garden  was  bright;  it  reached  to  the 
door  of  the  sitting-room — a  large  room,  hung  with 
faded  paper  and  furnished  with  mahogany  cov- 
ered with  flowered  cretonne;  it  entered  even  a 
little  on  each  side  of  the  French  window  which 
was  wide  open;  the  borders,  in  gratitude,  sent 
up  on  the  parquet  some  adventurous  branches, 
such  as  there  are  in  all  clusters.  Out  of  the  corner 


MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL    103 

on  the  right,  a  bunch  of  mignonette,  on  the  left  a 
stalk  of  marshmallow.  In  front,  the  central  path 
led  down,  edged  with  rose-trees,  of  which  not  one 
was  rare,  but  which  were  as  prolific  as  common, 
happy  people. 

Evelyne  seated  herself  before  the  low  table  on 
which  Madame  Morand  was  accustomed  to  keep 
her  work-basket,  and  on  which  this  morning  were 
placed,  upon  a  spotless  napkin,  the  coffee-pot, 
cup,  sugar-bowl,  some  butter,  some  jam,  and  the 
cream-jug.  She  began  to  bite  a  slice  of  bread 
and  jam,  which  gave  her  courage  to  smile  for  the 
first  time. 

"What  are  you  smiling  at?"  asked  the  old  lady, 
who  often  went  as  far  as  the  village  to  see  a  child 
smile. 

"I  was  smiling  at  a  saying  one  often  hears  in 
the  creameries:  'There  is  fresh  butter  only  in 
Paris.'  Mamma  says  the  same;  Madame  Gimel, 
I  mean — that  is — you  know,  the  one  who  brought 
me  up." 

The  smile  faded  away;  Evelyne  became  red. 
Tears  rose  to  the  corners  of  her  eyes.  She  pre- 
tended to  be  interested  in  the  arbour  of  boxwood 
in  the  rear  of  the  garden.  Madame  Morand,  who 
could  have  spoken,  and  dissipated  the  memory, 
and  consoled  her,  did  nothing;  but  she  looked  in 
silence  into  the  eyes  of  flax-grey  which  the  light 
illumined  to  their  very  depths,  down  to  the  sor- 
rowful soul  which  was  struggling  to  recover  it- 
self. 

That  same  day,  at  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon, 
the  postman  who  passed  by  Haut-Clos  carried 


104         THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

a  letter  from  Evelyne,  who  wrote  to  Madame 
Gimel : 

"You  must  know  all;  I  promised  you,  I  keep 
my  word.  Then,  at  eight  o'clock,  after  the  re- 
ception of  which  I  have  just  told  you,  I  had  cried 
stupidly,  for  nothing,  when  Madame  Morand, 
who  until  then  had  been  standing,  came  and 
seated  herself  against  the  light,  turning  her  back 
to  the  garden.  And  this  little  person  began  an  ex- 
amination !  .  .  .  How  many  things  she  asked  me ! 
She  questioned  me  about  you,  about  my  educa- 
tion, about  what  I  thought  of  plays  which  I  have 
seen,  my  work  at  the  bank,  everything,  finally, 
with  more  details  than  her  son  had  done,  oh! 
much  more!  He  believed  in  me  more  quickly. 
With  her  I  was  conscious  only  that  her  distrust 
was  lessening.  I  was  a  person  from  a  long  way 
off,  from  the  dangerous  city,  from  the  place  where 
men  ruin  themselves  for  women  who  are  daring. 
I  kept  my  self-possession,  I  told  her: 

"'Madame,  it  is  just  the  contrary;  men  are 
the  ones  who  ruin  women.  I  know  something 
about  it?' 

"'Really?' 

"'Like  all  those  who  are  virtuous.  Men  have 
such  audacity !  With  poor  girls  like  us,  they  don't 
stand  on  ceremony,  I  assure  you,  in  the  street, 
in  the  omnibus,  in  stairways,  at  the  restaurant ! ' 

"'The  blackguards!' 

'"Often  well-dressed  men,  with  monocles. 
Young  and  old,  they  stare  at  you,  they  say  any- 
thing to  you.' 


MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL    105 

"'Why,  I  should  blush!  What  do  you  an- 
swer?' 

"'Nothing,  unless  they  are  a  little  too  bold. 
You  simply  walk  on;  pretend  not  to  hear;  some- 
times you  go  into  a  shop.  Oh!  there  is  an  ap- 
prenticeship to  serve.  I  have  served  mine.  I 
could  pass  between  two  files  of  gendarmes.' 

"'You  are  brave,  my  child!' 

"'I  am  not  all  that  I  should  be,  Madame,  but 
brave,  yes  a  little.  And  I  am  not  the  only  one. 
The  brave  ones  are  more  numerous  than  you 
would  believe;  and  if  you  wish  me  to  tell  you  a 
thought  which  I  have  often:  virtue,  at  Paris,  is 
altogether  chic;  it  is  vaccinated,  tried,  stamped, 
and,  with  it  all,  it  is  good-humoured.  I  have  some 
friends  who  have  no  imposing  airs;  but  when 
you  know  them  well,  you  discover  virtue  in  them, 
and  real  virtue .  The  maj  ority  would  make  charm- 
ing wives.  There  are  many  proud  ones  among 
them,  some  sensitive  ones,  princesses  of  elegance, 
some  clever  ones.'  I  stopped,  comprehending 
that  I  had  gone  too  far.  Madame  Morand  did 
not  reply  directly.  She  said : 

'"You  blush,  Mademoiselle  Evelyne?  You 
are  very  wrong.  I  believe  what  you  say.  Come, 
let  me  help  you  to  some  preserves.  They  are 
preserves  of  mountain  raspberries,  such  as  you 
have  never  tasted  at  Paris.' 

"For  the  first  time  I  felt  that  I  was  not  dis- 
pleasing. The  thought  made  me  so  happy  that 
I  obeyed  Madame  Morand  and  realised  that  I 
was  hungry. 

"The  inspection  of  the  house — which  is  not 


106         THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

beautiful,  which  looks  like  the  pilot-house  that 
we  saw  together,  you  remember,  at  Dieppe  the 
day  of  the  excursion — took  three  good  quarters 
of  an  hour.  It  was  ten  o'clock  when  we  went  out 
of  doors.  Ah !  how  delightful  if  he  had  been  there 
to  show  me  his  own  country.  Sunshine  every- 
where; the  fog  flown  away;  more  land  under  my 
eyes  than  I  had  ever  seen  in  my  life,  stretched  out 
before  us,  in  the  hollow  where  I  had  climbed  this 
morning  up  to  Linot.  I  cannot  say  how  many 
low  valleys,  villages,  dear  little  hills  and  moun- 
tains. It  is  dreamland.  Around  us,  to  the  right, 
to  the  left,  more  mountains,  but  close  by  and  dotted 
with  forests,  and,  between  the  wide  slopes,  little 
hills  covered  with  vineyards,  meadows,  houses. 

"'We  are  in  the  high  valley,  you  see/  Madame 
Morand  said,  'and  upon  the  hill  of  Linot;  a  little 
farther,  there  is  the  hill  of  Hostel,  with  its  vine- 
yards and  lime-trees;  then  that  of  Arcolliere— 

"She  took  pleasure  in  saying  these  familiar 
names.  But  I  kept  thinking  that  she  did  not 
talk  to  me  of  her  son.  We  walked  in  the  foot- 
paths of  the  peasants,  often  on  the  grass,  and  she 
stopped  to  ask  me: 

"'You  are  not  tired?' 

"I  answered: 

" '  Madame,  I  am  much  more  tired  when  I  have 
worked  seven  hours  at  stenography  and  type- 
writing. Then  it  is  my  shoulders  that  are  stiff 
with  fatigue,  and  my  ringers  that  have  lost  their 
energy.  On  the  mountain,  to-day,  I  could  walk 
until  night.' 

"We  came  to  a  road;  she  placed  herself  by  my 


MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL    107 

side  and  said  to  me  with  a  tone  which  was,  I 
think,  a  reward  and  which  I  had  earned : 

" '  This  morning  when  I  met  you,  Mademoiselle 
Evelyne,  I  was  returning  from  mass.  I  go  every 
day.  My  whole  strength  comes  from  that.  Now 
that  I  know  you,  and  that  I  see  that  you  are  a 
child  naturally  noble,  and  so  sincere,  I  can  con- 
fess to  you  the  dearest  wish  I  have  made  for  my 
Louis ' 

"We  stood  facing  each  other  on  the  road  be- 
tween two  great  hedges  of  brambles.  She  be- 
came pale  again  as  at  the  first  moment  when  she 
had  seen  me.  But  she  was  looking  at  me  with 
eyes  in  which  there  was  love  for  me,  and  which 
recalled  yours  to  me.  She  continued: 

"'Mademoiselle  Evelyne,  I  have  wished  all  my 
life  that  my  son  should  marry  a  religious  woman. 
Those  who  are  fairly  good  without  religion,  with 
prayer  would  be  still  more  worthy  of  admiration. 
It  is  a  world  closed  to  many.  I  do  not  wish  to 
preach  a  sermon  to  you,  I  ask  you  to  tell  me  sin- 
cerely if  your  dear  young  soul  could  rise  to  that 
height?' 

"I  have  never  looked  in  eyes  as  beautiful  as 
hers,  which  were  waiting  and  which  were  repeat- 
ing: 

"'Your  dear  young  soul,  could  it  rise?' 

"I  answered: 

"'Why  not?  I  have  thought  more  than  once 
on  what  you  say  to  me.  It  has  not  come  into 
my  life,  that  is  all.' 

"'If  you  should  seek?' 

"'You  believe  that  it  would  be  a  way  of  loving 
him  better?' 


108         THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

"'I  am  very  sure  of  it,  my  child.' 

"I  shut  my  eyes.  I  stretched  out  my  hands  a 
little,  and  I  felt  this  old  mother,  very  tender  as 
you  are,  weeping  on  my  breast.  And  I  leaned  my 
head  down  against  hers;  when  I  was  able  to  speak, 
I  said  to  her,  resuming  my  walk  by  her  side : 

"'Madame,  I  wish  to  tell  you  everything,  in  my 
turn.  ...  I  am  sure  that  no  one  will  love  your  son 
as  I  love  him;  but  I  should  be  an  obstacle  to  his 
career;  even  were  I  religiously  such  as  you  would 
wish  me  to  be,  I  should  still  have  my  wretched 
civil  status  of  foundling.  There  are  doors  which 
would  close  before  us,  or  which  would  open  only 
half-way  to  the  superior  officer,  by  order.  I  am 
very  unhappy,  I  assure  you !  I  ought  not  to  have 
come;  if  we  should  talk  it  over  together,  he  and 
I,  we  would  come  to  the  same  conclusion:  I  can- 
not marry  him !  Indeed,  no !  I  ought  not  to  have 
come.  I  had  already  made  the  sacrifice  once, 
and  it  will  be  harder  to  make  it  again.  .  .  .  Have 
you  a  solution?  Have  you  a  way?' 

"Like  myself  she  was  in  tears.  Walking  along 
she  put  her  poor  mourning  bonnet  straight,  which 
I  had  displaced  with  my  arms.  And  she  was 
silent. 

"Soon  we  saw  the  houses  of  the  hamlet  of  Vieu; 
the  paths,  the  scenery  between  the  trees  and 
above  the  meadows  in  relief,  were  perhaps  pretty : 
I  did  not  see  them.  We  went  in  the  church; 
Madame  Morand  made  me  go  in  first,  and  I 
stepped  at  once  to  the  holy  water  basin,  then, 
naturally,  I  turned  to  her  to  offer  the  holy  water, 
which  astonished  her.  We  were  alone.  She  went 
a  little  way  up  the  nave  and  knelt  down.  I  re- 


MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL    109 

mained  in  the  last  row  of  chairs.  And  it  is  cer- 
tain that  I  felt  better  than  usual;  I  said  a  true 
prayer  and  I  did  not  notice  the  time  my  prayer 
lasted. 

"Madame  Morand  touched  my  shoulder;  we 
went  out;  she  said  to  me  simply: 

"'I  have  a  commission  to  give  to  Angelique 
Samonoz.  We  will  go  this  way,  if  you  please.' 

"At  the  grocer's,  I  saw  from  the  threshold, 
where  I  very  sadly  waited  for  her,  that  she  was 
discussing  terms,  that  she  counted  out  some 
money,  that  she  wrote  something.  But  what  did 
it  matter  to  me?  I  was  only  struck  with  the 
joyousness  of  her  face  when  we  regained  the 
road  to  Haut-Clos.  She  turned  her  head  toward 
me,  she  sought  for  something  besides  the  com- 
monplace smile,  the  ordinary  smile  which  I  gave 
her.  What  did  she  wish?  Could  I  guess?  At 
the  last  house  of  the  village,  without  warning  me, 
she  took  my  hand  and  pressing  it: 

"'Little  Mademoiselle  Evelyne,  be  happy!' 

"'Why,  Madame?' 

"'I  have  just  sent  a  messenger  to  the  post- 
office  of  Champagne.  I  have  telegraphed  to  my 
son.' 

"'What  did  you  say  to  him?' 

"'To  come.' 
" When  will  he  be  here?' 

"'To-morrow  morning,  and  I  shall  keep  you/ 

"Mamma,  I  will  not  tell  you  of  the  return  to 
the  house  of  Haut-Clos.  We  talked  only  of  Louis. 
I  am  filled  with  a  joy  that  cannot  be  described. 
It  is  only  trouble  that  one  tells  at  length.  I  have 


110         THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

but  one  now,  which  struggles  in  the  midst  of  my 
happiness,  like  a  fly  in  cream,  and  which  I  cannot 
make  fly  away,  and  it  is  this :  What  career  to  find 
for  Louis  if  he  gives  up  the  army?  Is  it  not  too 
much  to  ask  of  a  man? 

"Until  to-morrow, 

"EVELYNE. 

"P.S.  Do  not  look  for  my  photograph.  I 
brought  it  with  me.  Was  it  a  presentment?  I 
would  be  so  happy  not  to  bring  it  back." 

The  next  day,  at  the  same  hour,  Evelyne  wrote 
a  second  letter: 

"HAUT-CLOS,  Saturday. 

"He  arrived  this  morning,  not  by  the  road  as 
I  did,  no,  by  footpaths  known  only  to  the  inhab- 
itants of  the  country,  and  rough  ones,  I  assure 
you.  He  took  half  an  hour  less  than  I  to  climb 
from  Artemare  to  Haut-Clos.  He  is  an  energetic 
man,  and  it  was  not  only  seeing  him  run  across  the 
fields  and  jump  over  palings  which  has  best  proved 
this  energy  to  me.  Madame  Morand  waited  for  her 
son  at  the  same  place.  Although  she  had  gone 
to  bed  very  late — ten  o'clock,  Mamma,  a  dissi- 
pation at  Linot,  a  date  in  the  mountains! — she 
had  risen  with  the  dawn,  visited  the  kitchen,  the 
linen-room,  then  the  garden.  She  was  like  a 
partridge  in  a  cage.  All  along  the  hedge,  on  the 
edge  of  the  vineyard,  she  trotted  without  a  hat, 
her  head  covered  with  a  shawl.  At  times,  she 
lifted  herself  up  on  the  tip  of  her  sabots,  watching 
with  eyes  and  ears  for  her  Lieutenant,  my  Lieu- 


MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL    111 

tenant.  I  was  in  the  sitting-room,  behind  the 
window.  We  distributed  our  roles  yesterday 
evening.  She  wished  to  speak  with  him  first,  to 
tell  him  all  alone  what  we  had  both  of  us  said, 
to  act  the  mother  finally  a  last  time.  I  saw  him 
bending  between  two  lines  of  vines,  straightening 
up,  raising  his  hand.  A  shadow  leaps  over  the 
fence.  It  is  he;  I  see  him  kissing  his  mother, 
questioning  her,  taking  her  arm,  trying  to  pull 
her  along.  She  resists  laughingly.  Ah!  he  loves 
me  still.  He  looks  very  well  in  a  short  jacket  and 
cap,  his  legs  gaitered  like  an  Alpine  climber.  He 
seemed  to  me  taller  than  at  Paris.  He  comes, 
positively,  by  the  central  path,  between  the  old 
rose-trees,  on  the  arm  of  Madame  Morand.  He 
keeps  his  eyes  fastened  on  the  window,  where  I 
no  longer  am.  I  have  run  to  the  door  and  I  have 
opened  it.  ...  Then,  Mamma,  we  stood  looking  at 
each  other,  I  on  the  threshold,  they  in  the  path, 
motionless,  struck  with  joy.  I  thought  that  I 
was  going  to  faint;  I  made  a  great  effort;  I  said: 

"'Monsieur,  I  love  you  always,  but  you  must 
not  sacrifice  your  career  for  me,  you  must  not 
regret'  .  .  . 

"He  dropped  Madame  Morand's  arm,  he  came 
up  to  me,  and,  with  my  permission,  he  kissed  me 
and  with  his  whole  heart,  I  assure  you.  Then 
he  said : 

"'You  are  my  betrothed,  now;  come,  let  us 
talk  of  the  future/ 

"  We  passed  a  part  of  the  morning  in  the  house, 
all  three  of  us,  and  the  rest,  we  two,  in  the  coun- 
try around  Haut-Clos.  Louis  wished  to  show  me 


112         THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

the  nooks  of  the  country  where  are  lodged  still,  as 
he  says,  all  the  memories  of  his  youth.  We  were, 
and  we  are,  very  happy.  We  talked  about  so 
many  things  that  were  I  merely  to  try  to  enumer- 
ate them,  it  would  be  a  real  task,  a  very  pleasant 
one,  but  too  long  for  a  letter  to  tell  you.  The 
sky  was  clear,  all  the  cultivated  strips  of  land 
flowed  around  us  on  the  slopes  and  moved  in  the 
wind  like  a  wave  of  new  ribbons.  Louis  asked 
me: 

"'Do  you  like  the  country?' 

"'I  do  not  know  it.' 

"'I  adore  it.  If  I  come  back  here,  will  you 
love  it?' 

"'I  love  you,  and  everywhere  it  will  be  the 
same.' 

"Madame  Morand,  to  whom  we  told  this  con- 
versation, took  on  an  expression,  a  little  sad,  and 
she  declared: 

"'How  long  have  people  been  saying  these 
sweet  words,  and  how  they  keep  the  world  alive ! ' 

"Oh!  yes,  to  live!  I  feel  that  I  am  living  and 
I,  who  used  not  to  cling  to  the  hours,  cling  to  the 
minutes  now.  In  my  turn,  I  asked : 

" '  Do  you  remember  the  12th  of  August?  Mac- 
larey's  bank,  the  regiment  which  marched  by,  your 
salute  with  your  sword?  I  was  angry  with  you  for 
it.  Why  did  you  salute  me? ' 

"'Because,  the  evening  before  I  had  received 
word  that  I  would  not  get  the  exchange  to  Sou- 
dan. My  resolution  had  been  taken  a  week  be- 
fore to  resign  if  I  did  not  obtain  Soudan  and,  since 
my  career  was  the  obstacle  between  us,  to  sup- 


MADEMOISELLE    GIMEL    113 

press  the  obstacle.  .  .  .  That  is  what  I  am  going 
to  do.  ...  In  saluting  you  I  was  in  my  right, 
you  see.'  .  .  .  He  added: 

"'I  have  but  one  vocation;  but  for  you,  Eve- 
lyne,  I  can  have  a  trade.' 

"How  sweet  these  words  are,  are  they  not? 
You  understand  that  I  am  flattered,  touched,  and 
that  I,  the  laughing  one,  have  wept  listening  to 
them.  He  is  simple,  he  is  good,  he  has  a  quick 
power  of  decision  which  gives  one  confidence.  I 
said  to  him  besides : 

"'Do  you  know  what  pleased  me,  at  once,  in 
you?' 

:'What?    My  uniform?' 

" '  No,  it  is  not  as  pretty  as  a  dress/ 

"'My  mustache?' 

"'Too  short.' 

" 'Then  I  will  let  it  grow.    My  soldierly  air?* 

"'The  affectionate  one  suits  me  better.' 

'"I  can  guess  no  more.    Tell  me  yourself.' 

"'What  enraptured  me  was  that  you  showed 
respect  for  me;  we  are  not  accustomed  to  it.  .  .  .' 

"  That  is  how  things  are.  A  single  thing  troubles 
us. 

"How  and  by  what  career  to  replace  the  army, 
where  Louis  cannot  remain?  He  is  young,  he  is 
going  to  try  at  Paris,  at  first,  for  love  of  me.  I 
close  this  long  letter  quickly.  Perhaps  it  will 
reach  you  at  the  same  time  that  I  do.  ...  I  leave 
this  evening.  They  will  take  me  to  the  station 
in  a  carriage.  Louis  will  not  leave  the  mountains 
for  two  days.  Good-bye. 

"EVELYNE." 


114         THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

VII. 
THE  DOUBLE  VISIT. 

As  soon  as  he  returned  to  Paris,  Louis  Morand 
donned  his  uniform  and  repaired  to  the  house  of 
his  colonel,  who  lived,  Place  de  Jena,  above  the 
gardens  and  the  Seine.  It  was  ten  o'clock  in  the 
morning.  The  lieutenant's  leave  did  not  expire 
until  the  next  day,  which  was  what  Colonel 
Ridault  observed  to  begin  with,  on  seeing  the 
officer  come  to  him: 

"You  have  changed  your  habits  of  old,"  he  said. 
"Four  days'  leave,  four  days  passed  in  the  Ain. 
You  would  return  to  Paris  at  five  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  and,  at  six,  you  were  at  Pepiniere.  Can 
you  be  growing  old?" 

"It  may  be,  Colonel." 

"Well,  I  am  not.  Look  at  this.  Is  not  the 
plan  of  my  fortress  rather  attractive?  Imagine 
the  sea  on  this  side,  and  there,  the  background 
of  the  bay  of  Villefranche;  the  terraces,  you  re- 
member, baked  and  golden,  like  loaves  of  bread?" 

"I  have  never  been  able  to  travel,  Colonel;  I 
do  not  know  the  place,  but  the  house  will  be 
pleasant,  certainly." 

It  was  a  wonderfully  beautiful  day.  Sunshine 
and  air  stirred  by  the  current  of  the  river  entered 
the  study,  which,  without  the  rack  of  pipes  hang- 
ing on  the  side  of  the  chimney,  would  have  been  all 
in  the  style  of  Louis  XV.  The  colonel,  in  a  light 
jacket,  seated  before  his  desk, was  studying  an  archi- 


MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL    115 

tect's  sketch,  a  brilliant  water-colour,  which  repre-^ 
sented  a  low  villa,  roofed  with  tiles,  whose  windows 
seemed  cut  in  the  clumps  of  bougainvilleas.  He 
raised  his  head,  shoved  his  armchair  back  a  lit- 
tle, trying  to  read  in  the  countenance  of  the  lieu- 
tenant the  progress  or  the  cure  of  a  trouble  of 
love,  of  which  he  had  been  the  first  confidant. 

"Your  face  is  always  a  sealed  book,  my  dear 
Morand.  I  read  there,  however,  that  your  mind 
is  more  fixed .  Come,  come !  Here,  you  are  turning 
pale!  What  is  the  matter?  A  tear!  I  do  not 
recognise  you!  Is  this  indeed  one  of  my  officers?" 

"Who  is  going  to  leave  the  regiment." 

"You  mean  to  exchange?" 

"I  resign." 

"You?    But  I  forbid  you!" 

"Colonel!" 

"I  do  not  want  you  even  to  speak  of  it  to  me! 
My  duty  is  to  prevent  suicides,  Morand;  to  watch 
over  the  honour  of  the  regiment.  Very  well !  By 
giving  in  your  resignation,  you  will  commit  sui- 
cide, for  you  are  the  most  military  of  all  my  of- 
ficers: a  man  of  discipline,  who  takes  duty  like 
bread,  every  day,  and  who  finds  it  good;  the  man 
to  whom  I  would  confide  a  battalion  in  a  war,  and 
whom  all  the  soldiers  would  follow,  sounding  the 
charge.  But  don't  you  know  what  it  is  that 
makes  the  chief?  It  is  not  gold  lace,  it  is  the 
heart  which  never  trembles,  the  clear  eye,  the 
sharp  command,  it  is  the  continual  thought  for 
others  and  the  forgetfulness  of  self,  and  that,  all 
that,  Morand,  you  have. " 

The  colonel  had  suddenly  come  near  the  young 


116         THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

man  and  had  seized  him  by  the  shoulder,  which  he 
pressed  in  his  strong  hand,  as  if  to  show  that 
Morand  was  his  prisoner,  and  that  the  regiment 
would  not  let  him  go.  At  the  same  time  the 
duel  of  glances  went  on,  touching  and  swift,  be- 
tween these  two  men,  separated  only  by  an  arm's 
length.  The  old  soldier  ordered,  begged,  was 
astonished  not  to  conquer  and  became  again  the 
offended  superior  officer  whose  blue  eyes,  charged 
with  will,  commanded  imperiously;  while  be- 
fore him,  wide  open  in  the  full  light,  the  brown 
eyes  of  the  lieutenant,  a  moment  troubled  and 
moist,  refused  to  say  yes  and  grew  more  and  more 
gloomy. 

"I  would  never  have  believed  that  of  you, 
Morand!"  cried  the  colonel,  letting  him  go. 

Choking  with  rage,  he  buttoned  his  linen  jacket, 
threw  himself  down  in  the  armchair  and  began 
hitting,  with  his  paper-knife,  the  water-colour  of 
the  fortress  spread  out  before  him.  Morand 
straightened  a  little  more;  his  eyes  had  not 
swerved,  they  had  not  yielded : 

"Colonel,  I  have  resolved  to  marry  the  young 
girl  of  whom  I  spoke  to  you.  I  sacrifice  to  her 
my  vocation  as  a  soldier,  and  all  the  labour  that 
I  have  had  to  win  my  rank." 

"  It  is  madness !    It  is  sheer  madness ! " 

"That  is  possible,  Colonel,  but  it  will  happen, 
this  very  evening." 

"No,  Monsieur!" 

"I  shall  write  my  letter  to  the  minister.  It 
was  my  duty  to  notify  you;  it  is  done." 

"No,  it  is  not  done!    Morand,  do  not  leave  us. 


MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL    117 

For  the  love  of  the  army,  which  has  but  too  many 
cowards.  No,  I  mean " 

The  lieutenant  saluted  and  turned  to  the  door. 

"Morand,  my  boy,  I  cannot  let  you  go  thus. 
Come  back !  I  have  something  more  to  ask  you." 

Colonel  Ridault  had  risen,  and  he  brought  the 
lieutenant  back  to  the  open  window.  He  had 
spoken  these  last  words  with  such  an  accent  of 
affection  and  sorrow  that,  suddenly,  all  the  arti- 
ficial harshness  and  even  the  natural  firmness  of 
Morand  gave  way. 

"You  may  believe,  Colonel,  that  the  battle 
has  been  fierce  for  me;  I  would  rather  have 
fought  that  battle  for  which  I  have  been  trained, 
the  true  one,  that  of  arms ' 

"Not  so!  The  true  battle  is  that  of  every  day; 
and  those  who  do  not  betray  their  honour  in  that 
one,  do  not  forfeit  it  under  arms  either— ^1  do  not 
mean  to  say  that  you  are  acting  contrary  to 
honour,  my  dear  friend,  no,  but  contrary  to  your 
own  interest,  contrary  to  your  vocation,  contrary 
to  all,  as  you  acknowledge.  Tell  me;  is  she  then 
so  charming?" 

His  face  had  a  youthful  smile,  very  brief,  the 
first.  The  two  men  were  leaning  their  elbows 
on  the  window-sill;  before  them  was  Paris  all 
transparent  in  the  summer  light  like  a  glass. 

"Yes,  Colonel,  yes.    Ah,  yes!" 

"The  expression  is  too  weak,  is  it  not?  The 
word  is  not  strong  enough?" 

And  the  first  laugh  broke,  discreetly,  above 
the  trees. 

"Have  you  by  chance  a  photograph  of  her, 
Morand?" 


118         THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

"For  three  days,  Colonel.  It  does  not  leave 
me." 

He  searched  in  the  pocket  of  his  uniform  and 
handed  over  the  photograph;  Colonel  Ridault 
seized  it  quickly,  held  it  to  the  light,  then  put  it 
away  as  far  as  he  could  from  his  face,  for  he  had 
become  far-sighted.  With  the  other  hand  he 
twisted  the  point  of  his  mustache. 

"You  are  right,  charming  is  not  strong  enough. 
There  is  character  in  these  eyes.  Are  they  blue?  " 

"No,  Colonel,  clear  grey." 

"A  rare  shade.  They  must  have  a  piquant 
and  tender  smile,  have  they  not?" 

"Ah,  Colonel!" 

"And  this  line  of  the  chin,  firm,  a  trifle  plain- 
spoken,  is  not  commonplace  at  all.  And  these 
lips,  which  would  quickly  utter  a  little  nonsense, 
but  never  a  spiteful  word,  and  which  I  should 
believe  to  be  supreme  in  pity.  One  is  tempted 
to  ask  where  race  will  lodge  itself  next?  Well, 
then,  my  dear  fellow,  since  you  are  sure  that  she 
is  an  honest  girl,  and  as  I  think  her  as  pretty  as 
you  think  her  yourself,  will  you  tell  me  why  she 
should  not  be  able  to  modestly  fill  her  little  niche 
hi  the  chorus  of  the  'ladies'  of  the  regiment?" 

"You  know  the  reason " 

"  Eh?  Yes,  her  father — a  Jean  Jacques,  of  whom 
there  remains  only  that.  Her  father  might  have 
been  well  born  enough;  he  must  have  been  even 
very  well  born.  Lieutenant  Louis  Morand,  look 
at  me." 

"I  am  looking." 

"  If  I  should  assure  you  that  this  young  woman 
will  be  received  in  the  military  world,  well  re- 


MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL    119 

ceived  even,  would  you  renounce  giving  in  your 
resignation?" 

"Colonel,  I  thank  you  for  your  sympathy; 
I  am  deeply  touched;  but  my  resolution  is  taken 
to  leave  the  army." 

"Yes,  because  you  think  that  I  have  changed 
my  opinion  and  that  the  world  will  not  change 
theirs.  But  if  you  had  proofs  to  the  contrary?" 

"What  proofs?" 

"  If  perfectly  certain  proofs  were  given  you  that 
the  most  elegant,  the  most  worldly  women  of  the 
regiment  will  receive  the  visit  of  Madame  Louis 
Morand,  and  will  return  this  visit — for  the  wel- 
come of  the  others,  those  whom  I  call  women  of 
heart,  is  not  doubtful — would  you  still  send  your 
letter?" 

"  No,  I  should  remain.  But  that  is  improbable, 
one  may  even  say  impossible." 

"Wait  three  days.    You  promise  me?" 

The  lieutenant,  flattered  and  touched  by  the 
insistence  of  his  chief,  looked  at  Paris,  where  the 
arbiters  of  his  fate,  wholly  unconscious  of  their 
r61e — wives  of  lieutenants,  captains  and  majors — 
were,  at  this  moment;  engaged  in  their  morning's 
shopping. 

"So  be  it,"  he  said.  "I  shall  have  obeyed  to  the 
last,  Colonel.  I  will  wait  three  days." 

He  pressed  the  hand  which  Colonel  Ridault 
extended  to  him,  and  withdrew.  The  colonel  made 
him  a  gesture  of  friendship  again  upon  the  landing- 
place;  then,  watching  his  young  soldierly  silhouette 
disappear  on  the  stairway,  between  the  walls  of 
purple  stucco,  he  murmured: 


120         THE   MARRIAGE   OF 

"Go,  my  boy!  I  wish  you  to  be  my  farewell 
gift,  my  souvenir  to  the  regiment.  I  will  give 
you  back  to  it.  He  does  not  suspect,  the  poor  boy, 
that  I  am  going  to  commit  an  act  of  folly  for  him. 
It  is  not  the  first  in  my  life,  but  it  is  the  best,  the 
one  which  will  gain  for  me,  I  hope,  the  pardon  for 
several  others.  Bah!  I  have  no  longer  any- 
thing to  expect  from  the  War  Office!  What  do 
I  risk?  Besides,  I  shall  affirm  nothing;  that 
would  be  to  he.  I  will  let  the  legend  shape  itself 
and  take  wings.  We  shall  see,  indeed!" 

He  re-entered  his  study,  whistling  a  march, 
rolled  up  the  rather  badly  treated  plan  of  his 
fortress,  and  pressed  an  electric  button.  An 
orderly  opened  the  door. 

"Lancret,  I  shall  go  out  at  two  o'clock.  You 
will  get  out  uniform  No.  I." 

Colonel  Ridault  made  several  visits  in  the 
course  of  the  afternoon.  He  had  the  luck  that  he 
was  hoping  for,  and  was  received  by  three  or  four 
of  the  ladies  of  the  regiment,  not  the  youngest 
ones,  but  those  best  qualified,  by  the  number  of 
their  interests  and  their  curiosity,  to  fashion  a 
legend  with  a  word,  to  put  it  in  circulation, 
and  to  give  it  the  authority  of  a  bit  of  history. 
At  the  house  of  one  he  spoke  only  of  the  char- 
acter and  the  eyes  of  Mademoiselle  Evelyne;  at 
another's,  he  declared  that  he  wished  to  be  one 
of  the  witnesses  of  the  lieutenant,  who  was  on 
the  eve  of  making  an  unexpected  and  delicious 
marriage;  at  the  third's,  who  asked:  "But,  finally, 
whom  does  she  look  like?"  he  answered: 


MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL    121 

"Like  me,  Madame." 

That  was  enough.  From  the  very  next  day 
it  was  whispered  in  the  military  world,  that  the 
colonel  proposed  to  recognise  the  foundling  later; 
that,  meanwhile,  he  avowed  his  paternity  with 
much  frankness,  with  a  tenderness  which  could 
not  deceive  anyone,  and  that  to  repair  his  fault  he 
meant  to  give  Mademoiselle  Evelyne  a  dot.  They 
even  fixed  the  figure  of  the  dot.  It  was  modest 
at  the  beginning  of  the  day.  Toward  the  close 
some  people  asked : 

"Do  you  believe  that  he  can  be  so  rich?" 

The  second  day  after  that,  several  comrades 
congratulated  the  lieutenant,  during  the  morning 
drill,  in  the  court  of  the  barracks.  Every  one  said : 

"They  say  that  she  is  charming." 

And  when  he  went  home,  in  the  afternoon,  the 
porter  handed  him  two  notes,  the  first  of  a  series 
which  was  long!  One  read: 

"Most  sympathetic  congratulations  from  our 
household." 

The  other,  more  explicit,  said: 

"  MY  DEAR  MORAND  : 

"We  have  just  learned  the  happy  news.  My 
wife  will  be  charmed  to  make  the  acquaintance 
of  Madame  Louis  Morand,  of  whom,  for  the  last 
two  days,  every  one  is  saying  the  kindest  things. 
She  wishes  to  present  her  to  our  best  friends. 

"  Congratulations." 

Finally,  in  the  evening,  a  captain  of  the  regi- 
ment, who  returned  from  the  War  Office,  affirmed 


122    MADEMOISELLE   GIMEL 

that  suddenly  the  prejudices,  which  had  delayed 
the  advancement  of  Colonel  Ridault,  had  disap- 
peared; and  that  Colonel  Ridault  at  the  next  pro- 
motion would  be  made  a  brigadier-general.  But 
the  report  might  not  have  been  true,  and  the  lieu- 
tenant, that  very  evening,  entirely  forgot  to  men- 
tion it  to  Evelyne,  whom  he  went  to  see  again. 


THE  DIPLOMAT 


THE  DIPLOMAT. 


I. 

MONSIEUR  Louis  JEAN  NEPOMUCENE  DE  RABEL- 
COURT,  seated  under  a  green  arbour  of  jasmine  in 
the  rear  of  his  English  garden,  murmured : 

"I  am  a  coward!" 

And,  almost  immediately,  he  added  this  ex- 
planation, which  did  not  go  beyond  the  green 
walls,  motionless  in  the  June  heat : 

"She  has  no  one  but  me.  I  am  her  sole  sup- 
port. She  called  me  three  weeks  ago,  and  I  have 
not  budged.  I  am  a  coward!" 

Several  times  every  day,  Monsieur  de  Rabel- 
court  addressed  this  offensive  epithet  to  himself 
without  its  deciding  him  to  leave  his  domain  of 
Wimmerelles,  where  he  lived  in  summer,  to  go  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  beyond  the  Belgian  frontier. 
Short  and  alert,  a  trifle  large  in  the  waist,  and  with 
sinewy  limbs;  full-faced,  with  a  ruddy  complexion, 
and  smooth-shaven,  save  two  small  side-whiskers 
at  the  base  of  the  ear  white  and  light  as  if  made 
of  silk,  Monsieur  de  Rabelcourt  belonged  to  that 
category  of  old  men  who  retain  their  youth.  Their 
youth  consists  nearly  always  in  a  peculiar  quality 
of  their  mind,  which  their  life  has  not  disillu- 

125 


126  THE   DIPLOMAT 

sioned.  They  guard  illusion,  either  of  themselves, 
of  science,  of  their  profession,  of  the  continuance 
or  merely  the  curiosity  of  the  present  hour,  and 
the  enjoyment  of  the  news  of  the  day.  Merely 
to  look  at  the  eyes  of  Monsieur  de  Rabelcourt, 
bluish-grey  eyes,  always  quivering  and  vibrating, 
amusing  themselves  in  looking,  searching,  ques- 
tioning, reading  another's  glance  or  smile,  you 
guessed  that  this  man  had  a  singular  talent  for 
psychology,  or  believed  that  he  had.  For  him 
every  visit,  every  meeting,  even  commonplace 
ones,  assumed  the  appearance  of  a  conference,  and 
turned  to  experience.  He  appeared  to  ask  those 
whom  he  accosted  for  the  first  time,  women  es- 
pecially, whom  he  found  infinitely  more  interest- 
ing than  men:  "What  kind  of  a  heart  is  this? 
Does  it  beat?  Doesn't  it  beat?  Will  it  beat? 
Has  it  a  secret?  Can  one  learn  it?"  And  of 
those  whom  he  met  again  after  a  brief  interval: 
"Have  we  gone  far,  since  the  other  day?" 

In  the  gay  world  of  Brussels,  which  he  fre- 
quented in  summer;  at  Paris,  where  he  passed 
the  winter;  he  had  the  reputation  of  being  an 
agreeable  conversationalist,  well  versed  in  af- 
fairs of  the  heart,  a  little  too  prone  to  enrich  his 
observations,  and  of  a  discretion  above  the  average, 
which  is  not  to  say  trustworthy.  He  was  courted, 
and  people  feared  him.  They  enjoyed,  espe- 
cially in  their  freshness,  the  stories  which  he  told; 
they  feared  those  which  he  might  surprise  or 
invent. 

All  was  explained,  when  you  knew  that  Mon- 
sieur de  Rabelcourt  had  been  in  the  diplomatic 


THE   DIPLOMAT  127 

service;  and  that  perpetual  tension  of  his  curios- 
ity with  regard  to  the  feminine  unknown,  the 
persistency  and  fluttering  of  his  eyes,  the  insid- 
ious turn  of  his  conversation,  lost  their  singularity 
and  became  a  pardonable  and  troublesome  trans- 
position of  professional  habit.  They  told  each 
other  that  he  had  a  diplomatic  temperament,  that 
he  continued  his  career,  interrupted  by  his  retire- 
ment, in  drawing-rooms;  and  if  they  still  feared 
his  manner,  it  no  longer  astonished  them. 

In  two  capitals  at  least,  he  passed,  therefore, 
as  a  clever  man.  It  would  have  been  slandering 
him,  besides,  to  refuse  him  a  certain  sensibility. 
He  was  fond  of  his  memories  of  Washington,  where 
he  had  made  his  debut  as  attache  of  the  embassy; 
of  Montevideo,  Valparaiso  and  Lima,  where  he  had 
slowly  been  promoted  in  rank;  of  Buenos  Ayres, 
where,  being  made  minister  in  that  same  Amer- 
ica from  which  they  did  not  transfer  him,  he  had 
grown  old,  envious,  and  forgotten,  he  thought; 
he  liked  the  despatches,  which  he  had  sent  to 
twenty  successive  ministers,  and  which  he  alone 
knew;  he  loved  the  familiar  images,  which  the 
mere  word  America  evoked  before  him,  of  Cre- 
oles, half-breeds,  Spanish  women  and  Portuguese, 
women  who  smoked  and  swung  in  hammocks,  with 
one  arm  dangling,  under  the  shade  of  bananas  and 
mimosas.  He  liked  to  recall  his  former  trips 
through  the  passes  of  the  Cordilleras,  and  his  pres- 
ent repose  in  the  flat  country  on  the  Belgian 
frontier;  his  brick  chalet,  his  garden,  so  different 
from  the  virgin  forest;  his  Angora,  which  re- 
sembled a  yellow  caterpillar;  his  numerous  decora- 


128  THE   DIPLOMAT 

tions,  kept  in  a  case  large  as  a  valise;  he  liked 
his  club  at  Brussels,  where  he  regularly  passed  the 
week-end;  he  was  also  fond  of  Countess  Guil- 
laumette,  his  little  niece,  his  last  relative,  married 
with  a  cavalry  officer;  the  one  precisely  about 
whom  Monsieur  de  Rabelcourt  had  been  accusing 
himself,  for  the  last  three  weeks,  of  selfishness  and 
irresolution. 

"Dear  child!"  he  murmured  under  the  jasmine 
arbour.  "Barely  eight  years  married  and  already 
unhappy!  She,  so  pretty,  so  clever,  so  full  of 
imagination;  a  little  the  image  of  my  brother, 
a  little  mine,  with  a  charm  all  her  own!  Yet  I 
have  not  answered  her  letter!  I  have  not  flown 
to  her!  Rabelcourt,  you  are  growing  old,  you 
dread  a  trip  to  Berry!  You  enjoy  your  repose, 
while  Guillaumette  weeps  and  expects  you." 

The  old  diplomat  interrupted  his  monologue 
to  chase,  with  a  net,  a  slim  white  petal,  curved 
like  the  snowy  neck  of  a  tiny  swan,  which  had 
just  settled  whirling  on  his  jacket  sleeve.  Then 
he  lifted  his  eyes,  and  contemplated  fondly 
through  the  arch  of  the  arbour,  with  the  uneasy 
tenderness  which  precedes  a  farewell,  the  elon- 
gated rectangle  which  formed  his  garden;  the  tall 
trees,  crowded  in  a  small  clump  on  both  sides, 
and  which  rose,  like  a  green  cliff,  in  the  smooth- 
cut  plain;  the  two  avenues  which  passed  under 
their  shade  encircling  an  oval  grass  plot ;  the  turf, 
fresh  as  in  April,  watered  every  morning,  clipped 
once  a  fortnight,  where  daisies  could  flourish 
only  on  condition  of  crouching  on  the  ground; 
finally,  quite  at  the  end,  through  the  transparent 


THE   DIPLOMAT  129 

veil  of  shimmering  air,  the  low  red  house,  whose 
tiles  were  grazed  here  and  there  by  branches  of 
elm-trees,  silent  fans  which  the  summer  breeze 
set  in  motion. 

"This  is  what  keeps  me,  then?"  thought  Mon- 
sieur de  Rabelcourt.  He  raised  his  head,  which 
he  held  bent  a  little  to  see  better  under  the  wan- 
ton stems  which  hung  from  the  arch  and  lessened 
the  opening  of  the  door,  and  he  called : 

"Eugene?" 

At  first  there  was  no  answer,  then  the  sand  of 
a  path  crackled  more  and  more  clearly  under 
approaching  steps.  The  valet  of  Monsieur  de 
Rabelcourt,  blond  and  formal,  dressed  in  black, 
appeared  at  the  corner  of  a  clump  of  trees. 

"Eugene,  go  to  my  room  and  pack  my  bag. 
I  will  take  the  evening  express.  Put  in  suit 
number  two;  it  is  for  the  country."  INP^I 

The  sound  of  footsteps  died  away  and  was  lost 
in  the  silence  of  the  plain  stifling  under  the  sun, 
while  Monsieur  de  Rabelcourt  drew  from  his 
pocket  a  violet  envelope,  already  worn  at  the 
corners,  opened  it  for  the  twentieth  time,  and 
reread,  skipping  useless  phrases  and  scanning 
others,  a  letter  which  he  could  have  recited  by 
heart. 

"My  DEAR  UNCLE:  First  I  must  give  you  news 
of  the  children.  .  .  .  Jean,  Pierre.  .  .  .  Ta,  ta, 
ta,  Louise  is  suffering  with  her  teeth.  .  .  .  Ta, 
ta,  ta.  .  .  .  Roberte.  .  .  .  Ta,  ta,  ta.  .  .  .  As  for 
myself,  I  prefer  not  to  reply  to  your  affectionate 
questions.  One  should  question  only  those  who 


130  THE   DIPLOMAT 

are  young,  gay,  happy,  for  otherwise,  you  risk 
burdening  yourself,  alas,  uselessly,  with  the  troub- 
les of  others.  No,  dear  uncle,  I  am  no  longer 
the  smiling  niece  whom  you  remember;  I  would 
like  to  be  able  to  go  far  away,  to  Buenos  Ayres, 
to  Lima  and  live  free  with  you.  I  have  had 
enough  of  life.  It  is  too  hard!  Ah!  one  thing 
is  certain,  when  my  daughters  are  of  the  age  to 
marry,  I  will  bid  them  reflect  twice,  a  hundred 
times.  .  .  .  But  what  am  I  saying?  It  is  weak 
to  complain.  Forget  what  I  have  just  written 
.  .  .  above  all  do  not  refer  to  this  subject;  that 
would  be  disastrous.  Write  me  rather  the  sequel 
of  that  story,  which  you  began  in  your  last  letter, 

the  story  of  that  Madame  de .    Ta,  ta,  ta. 

"P.S.  Edouard  came  back  from  Algeria  nine 
weeks  ago.  He  is  very  well." 

Monsieur  de  Rabelcourt  drew  a  deep  sigh,  in 
returning  the  letter  to  his  pocket,  but  his  face, 
like  his  voice,  had  become  more  and  more  firm 
as  he  read : 

"It  is  perfectly  clear,"  he  said  aloud,  "trans- 
parent enough!  There  is  no  need  to  be  a  diplo- 
mat to  decipher  that  pitiful  enigma!  It  is  the 
eternal  despatch  of  the  yellow  book  of  life.  Guil- 
laumette  complains  of  her  husband;  she  is  suffer- 
ing on  his  account;  the  dryness  of  her  postscript 
is  sufficiently  eloquent:  'Edouard  is  very  well/ 
He  has  deceived  her.  Where?  With  whom? 
Can  it  be  at  Limoges,  where  they  are  in  garrison? 
I  do  not  think  so,  since  Monsieur  de  Rueil  has 
just  passed  six  months  in  Algeria,  on  a  topo- 


THE   DIPLOMAT  131 

graphic  mission,  and  Guillaumette's  letter  reveals 
a  sorrow  which  breaks  forth,  a  surprise;  it  is  a 
cry!  Then,  what  is  it?  I  see  but  two  supposi- 
tions: an  Algerian  adventure  that  this  poor  child 
has  discovered,  or  an  intimacy  in  Berry  on  his 
return,  in  that  peaceful  corner  where  she  was  so 
happy  to  pass  their  three  months'  leave.  ...  I 
will  find  out  what  it  is.  She  will  tell  me,  since 
she  has  begun  the  confession.  She  calls  me,  since 
she  has  taken  me  for  a  confidant.  I  start,  Guil- 
laumette,  I  start,  I  am  coming  to  aid  you!" 

He  crossed  the  whole  length  of  the  garden, 
opened  the  box  of  orders,  out  of  which  he  chose 
a  decoration  that  Dom  Pedro  himself  had  placed 
on  the  breast  of  the  "dear  minister,"  and  he 
could  not  refrain  from  smiling  sadly,  while  pass- 
ing the  ribbon  through  his  buttonhole.  "I  am 
returning  to  the  active  diplomatic  list,"  he  thought, 
"and  it  is  a  good  omen  to  carry  with  me  the  evi- 
dence of  my  best  success.  May  I  succeed  in  this 
as  I  did  in  the  affair  of  the  Jacobson  concession!" 

He  dined  and,  at  nightfall,  took  the  express 
from  Brussels. 

II. 

The  traveller  only  passed  through  Paris.  Five 
or  six  errands  between  his  arrival  at  daybreak 
at  the  North  station  and  his  departure  in  the 
afternoon  from  the  Orleans  station  restored  his 
natural  vivacity,  which  a  night  of  disturbances 
and  sudden  awakenings  had  depressed  a  little. 
When  he  was  again  settled  in  the  train  and  felt 


132  THE   DIPLOMAT 

that  he  was  rolling  toward  the  fields  of  Berry, 
from  which  only  a  few  hours'  journey  separated 
him,  he  regained  all  his  confidence  in  his  diplo- 
matic star,  all  the  vibrating  good  humour,  the 
abundance  of  ideas  and  the  oratorical  form,  that 
he  had  formerly  known  the  night  before  princely 
audiences,  or  interviews  with  the  ministers  of 
South  America.  His  imagination  flew  before  him, 
picturing  to  him  the  chateau  of  Monant,  the  old 
family  dwelling,  from  which  he  had  escaped  early 
to  roam  the  world.  The  last  time  that  he  had 
gone  to  Berry  was  to  be  present  at  the  marriage 
of  Guillaumette.  They  had  postponed  the  wed- 
ding a  month  to  give  her  uncle,  the  diplomat, 
time  to  reach  there.  How  clearly  he  saw  the  two 
slanting  towers  joined  by  a  main  building,  rest- 
ing on  a  hill  and  surrounded  with  sloping  chest- 
nut groves;  the  tent  decorated  with  flags  and 
bouquets  of  daisies  and  corn-flowers  for  the  wed- 
ding breakfast  on  the  return  from  the  church, 
and  the  hurried,  snatched  departure  of  the  young 
couple,  full  of  agitation  and  full  of  joy,  who  rose 
from  the  table  before  their  guests,  leaving  to  go 
to  the  neighbouring  station,  alone,  but  followed 
by  the  thought  of  all.  How  pretty  this  radiant 
and  agitated  Guillaumette  was,  to  whom  a  hundred 
friends,  Parisians,  Berrichons,  and  Poitevins,  were 
calling,  in  murmurs  mingled  with  tears  and  laugh- 
ter: "Good-bye,  darling,  adieu,  Madame!  Be 
happy.  Do  not  forget  us,  Guillaumette!  Think 
of  us,  dearest!"  Glances  were  fixed  on  this  smi- 
ling apparition,  arrested  a  last  moment  between 
the  portieres,  which  she  was  holding  with  one 


THE   DIPLOMAT  133 

hand;  this  face,  in  which  each  sought,  with  secret 
jealousy,  with  repressed  sobs,  with  infinite  desire, 
to  read  the  fleeting  radiance  of  perfect  faith  in 
life,  whilst  she,  already  separated  from  the  oth- 
ers, was  looking  at  but  one  person,  her  oldest, 
most  faithful  friend.  Yes,  Monsieur  de  Rabel- 
court  had  had  Guillaumette's  last  thought  at  the 
moment  when  childhood  ended.  He,  protected 
against  emotion  by  the  long  habit  of  separations, 
had  wept;  he,  the  sceptic,  had  believed  and  be- 
lieved firmly  in  the  happiness  which  he  wished 
his  niece  and  which  he  almost  envied.  This 
Edouard  de  Rueil,  who  was  carrying  Guillaumette 
off,  taking  her  away  from  the  chateau  de  Monant, 
was  so  obviously  in  love!  Young,  also,  full  of 
promise,  like  all  officers  who  marry,  he  passed 
indeed  as  being  a  trifle  blunt,  rough  and  stub- 
born, but  his  comrades  judged  him  to  be  of  a 
loyal,  upright  nature,  incapable  of  betrayal. 

"Who  would  have  said  then?"  Monsieur  de 
Rabelcourt  repeated  to  himself,  looking  at  the 
twilight  descend  upon  the  misty  plains  of  Berry, 
"who  would  have  guessed?  This  Rueil,  with  his 
large  neck,  his  arched  nose,  his  piercing  black 
eyes,  looks  like  an  eagle,  a  hawk,  but  not  the  least 
in  -the  world  like  a  fickle  turtle-dove.  He  did 
not  have  an  even  temper.  That  must  have  grown 
upon  him.  In  truth,  I  have  a  pretty  piece  of 
business  there  on  my  hands!" 

He  was  a  trifle  disturbed  by  his  role.  But  a 
little  fever  of  self-love  and  anger  urged  him  on. 
It  was  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening  when  he  set 
foot  on  the  platform  of  a  little  rural  station  in 


134  THE   DIPLOMAT 

the  midst  of  an  almost  deserted  country  covered 
with  trees  and  fresh  as  a  mushroom  cellar. 

"Oh!"  he  exclaimed,  "what  a  journey!  From 
yesterday  evening  at  eleven!  At  last,  here  I  am! 
I  recognise  the  sharp  air  of  Monant.  Burning 
days  and  icy  nights!"  He  threw  his  Scotch  plaid 
over  his  shoulders,  although  he  had  worn  his  sum- 
mer overcoat,  and  looked  around  him.  As  he 
had  neglected  to  announce  his  coming,  so  as  to 
fall  "in  the  middle  of  the  game,"  according  to  his 
favourite  expression,  he  saw  only  the  departing 
train,  the  station-master  going  inside  with  his 
lantern,  and  the  stars  which  were  coming  out. 
It  happened  luckily  that  a  little  shepherd  boy  was 
passing,  whistling,  on  his  way  to  a  small  farm. 

"Take  my  bag  and  accompany  me  to  the  cha- 
teau," said  Monsieur  de  Rabelcourt.  "I  will  re- 
ward you." 

"Are  you  going  to  the  ball?"  asked  the  boy. 

"To  the  ball?  No,  my  boy,  I  am  going  to  the 
chateau  of  Monant,  nowhere  else.  There  are  two 
or  three  rather  silly  country  houses  about  here, 
I  know,  but  I  am  going  to  Monant,  you  under- 
stand, Monant!" 

The  boy  looked  at  him,  gave  a  toss  of  his  head, 
which  signified:  "I  made  a  mistake,"  and  doubt- 
less^taking  him  for  some  business  man,  he  led  the 
way  without  uttering  another  word. 

It  was  a  calm  night,  perfumed  with  the  odour 
of  leaves,  of  wheat  in  grain  and  of  gorse  in  bloom. 
Monsieur  de  Rabelcourt,  following  his  guide,  took 
the  shortest  way  along  solitary  roads,  walking  up- 
on the  ridges  of  old  ruts  and  upon  slopes  of  grass 


THE   DIPLOMAT  135 

that  no  scythe  had  ever  mown.  He  stalked 
along,  his  head  up,  his  nostrils  to  the  wind,  breath- 
ing in  the  air  with  full  lungs.  From  time  to  time 
he  pronounced  in  an  undertone  phrases  which 
seemed  opportune  and  pertinent  to  him : 

"This  is  an  intoxicating  country,  Monsieur, 
heady  and  poetic,  I  acknowledge  that.  But  when 
a  man  has  wife  and  children,  devil  take  it!  he 
must  stay  at  home!  After  all,  there  is  such  a 
thing  as  morality." 

The  boy  thought  that  he  was  reciting  a  fable. 
Together  they  went  down  into  the  hollows  of  the 
valleys;  they  climbed  slopes  where  ferns  shone 
beneath  the  branches  of  chestnut-trees.  At  last, 
after  half  an  hour,  reaching  the  turn  of  a  clump 
of  trees,  which  opened  suddenly  upon  a  rising 
glade,  they  found  themselves  at  once  on  a  gravelled 
walk,  a  hundred  steps  from  the  chateau,  which 
stood  on  the  crest  of  the  hill,  whose  windows, 
from  top  to  bottom,  were  lighted  up. 

"Sapristi!"  exclaimed  Monsieur  de  Rabelcourt, 
"they  were  not  expecting  me  nevertheless?" 

"It  is  because  they  are  dancing!"  said  the  lit- 
tle urchin.  "They  often  dance.  They  do  not 
put  themselves  out  much  for  it." 

The  traveller  listened  a  moment  to  the  shrill 
notes  of  a  piano  melting  into  the  night,  and  he 
doubted  no  longer.  Annoyed,  he  continued  to 
advance  slowly,  to  gain  his  breath.  Some  men 
servants,  grouped  around  the  stables  to  the  right 
of  the  chateau,  were  talking.  One  of  them 
stepped  forward,  a  formal  old  steward  with  thick 
white  side-whiskers,  who  had  served  the  masters 


136  THE   DIPLOMAT 

of  Monant  for  thirty  years,  and  who  had  known 
Monsieur  de  Rabelcourt  at  the  time  of  his  diplo- 
matic activity,  at  the  most  brilliant  period  of  his 
career. 

"  Is  it  possible ! "  he  exclaimed.  "  It  is  Monsieur 
le  Ministre!" 

"  In  person,  Claude,"  replied  Monsieur  de  Rabel- 
court, flattered  by  a  title  which  was  not  given  him 
as  frequently  as  of  yore.  "A  surprise!  I  arrive 
without  notice." 

"  Does  Monsieur  le  Ministre  desire  madame  to 
be  informed?" 

"Not  at  all!  On  the  contrary.  You  may  take 
up  my  bag  only  so  that  I  may  change  my  clothes, 
and  make  ready  a  guest-chamber  for  me.  But 
what  is  going  on  this  evening  at  Monant?  A 
ball?" 

"Pardon,  Monsieur  le  Ministre.  The  rooms 
would  not  lend  themselves  to  what  is  called  a  great 
ball.  We  have  a  few  people  of  the  neighbour- 
hood, about  thirty.  It  is  only  a  hop.  It  will 
end  at  eleven  o'clock,  I  take  the  liberty  of  assuring 
Monsieur  le  Ministre  of  that,  because  madame 
has  already  given  several  reunions  of  this  kind  to 
enliven  the  last  weeks  of  monsieur's  leave." 

He  bowed,  taking  the  valise;  and  one  would 
have  said,  from  the  air  with  which  he  passed  be- 
fore his  comrades,  that  he  carried  the  bag  in  which 
the  former  minister  kept  his  despatches. 

"Courageous  and  imprudent  child,"  thought 
Monsieur  de  Rabelcourt,  "I  recognise  her  well! 
She  dances  to  throw  the  world  off  the  scent;  she 
wants  to  make  believe  in  a  happiness  which  no 


THE   DIPLOMAT  137 

longer  exists.  I  am  afraid  of  but  one  thing;  that 
is,  that  the  masks  will  drop  of  themselves,  and 
too  suddenly,  when  I  enter.  For  I  am  coming, 
Monsieur  de  Rueil,  and  I  shall  be  at  the  fete." 

By  the  time  he  had  changed  his  dress,  the  hall 
clock  was  just  striking  nine;  the  diplomat  had 
crushed  in  his  buttonhole  the  Brazilian  ribbon, 
drawing  the  ends  very  tight  so  that  they  followed 
the  line  on  his  shirt-front  of  the  four  buttons  of 
his  white  waistcoat,  and,  noiselessly,  he  pushed 
open  the  drawing-room  door. 

He  stopped  near  the  door.  They  were  waltzing. 
No  one  noticed  him  at  first,  then  a  young  woman, 
seated  near  a  dowager,  and  who  was  looking  around 
for  a  topic  of  conversation,  seeing  the  unknown, 
bent  forward  and  asked: 

"Who  is  that?" 

The  dowager  bent  forward  in  her  turn  to  the 
left,  and  the  movement  was  started  as  in  a  field 
of  wheat,  the  white  shoulders  bent,  and  the  same 
question,  "Who  is  that?"  flew  from  group  to  group 
until  it  reached  Guillaumette  de  Rueil,  whom  the 
diplomat,  dazzled  by  the  brilliancy  of  the  lights, 
was  endeavouring  to  discover  behind  the  dancers. 
She  was  seated  in  the  midst  of  four  friends  of  her 
age,  leaning  back  a  little  in  her  armchair,  listening 
to  the  laughter  around  her,  a  little  absent-minded, 
and  patting,  with  little  strokes,  the  folds  of  em- 
broidered tulle  which  veiled  her  pink  satin  gown. 
Suddenly  the  murmur,"  Who  is  that?  "which  spread 
from  place  to  place,  reached  her;  with  a  supple 
movement  she  straightened  up.  All  her  friends  fol- 
lowed the  movement  of  her  face,  which  was  bent 


138  THE   DIPLOMAT 

forward.  She  squinted  her  eyes  for  a  second, 
then  two  dimples  hollowed  her  cheeks  and  her  daz- 
zling teeth  appeared  between  the  smooth  lips. 

"Ah!"  she  cried,  "it  is  my  Uncle  Rabelcourt!" 

And  gliding  between  the  waltzers,  who  saw 
nothing,  with  outstretched  hands,  rosy  and  dim- 
pled under  the  aureole  of  her  fair  hair,  the  saucy 
patch  which  marked  the  right  dimple  displaced 
by  her  smile  and  lifted  by  a  line,  like  the  point  of 
her  eyebrows,  the  corner  of  her  eyes,  her  nostrils, 
the  curve  of  her  mouth,  Guillaumette  de  Rueil, 
in  the  reflections  of  stuffs  and  mirrors,  moving  in 
step  to  the  music  of  the  slow  waltz,  came  toward 
Monsieur  de  Rabelcourt,  who  stood  motionless, 
already  bent  to  kiss  her  hand,  and  who  watched 
her  come.  She  kissed  him : 

"What  a  charming  surprise,  Uncle!" 

"I  could  not  come  sooner,"  said  Monsieur  de 
Rabelcourt  rapidly  and  in  an  undertone;  "busi- 
ness, important  business  affairs,  detained  me,  but 
I  did  not  wish  to  fail  at  the  rendezvous,  my  dear 
child." 

She  replied  in  the  most  natural  tone  and  with- 
out lowering  her  voice. 

"I  cannot  believe  my  eyes;  my  uncle  at  Mo- 
nant!  Where  do  you  come  from?" 

"Why,  from  Belgium,  of  course,"  murmured 
Monsieur  de  Rabelcourt;  "you  know  very  well." 

"On  purpose  to  see  us?" 

"Naturally." 

"Then  I  take  it  for  granted  that  you  are  going 
to  stop  with  us?" 

"I  had  Claude  take  my  luggage  up." 


THE   DIPLOMAT  139 

"That  is  good  of  you.  Bdouard  will  be  de- 
lighted!" And  as  she  smiled,  her  blue  eyes,  still 
coaxing  like  those  of  a  child,  rested  upon  the  old 
man ;  the  latter  gave  an  admiring  toss  of  his  head, 
thinking:  "Marvellously  well  acted,  Guillaumette ! 
Not  a  change  of  countenance,  not  an  avowal 
before  witnesses!  You  belong  to  my  race!" 

Then,  as  the  waltz  stopped,  and  as  all  eyes  were 
now  turned  toward  Guillaumette  de  Rueil  and 
toward  him,  Monsieur  de  Rabelcourt,  who  had 
been  very  serious  until  then,  added  with  an  unem- 
barrassed air  aloud : 

"You  are  more  Watteau  than  ever,  Niece!" 

"Do  you  think  so?" 

"Fresh  and  slim,  quite  the  figure  of  a  young 
girl!" 

The  smile  on  the  lips  of  Madame  de  Rueil  was 
accentuated.  A  droll  thought  must  have  been 
passing  through  her  mind. 

"Always  the  diplomat,  Uncle!"  she  answered. 
"You  have  not  changed  either!  Will  you  come 
with  me?  Edouard  is  in  here." 

As  she  spoke,  she  drew  Monsieur  de  Rabel- 
court into  a  small  drawing-room  where  half  a 
score  of  distinguished-looking  country  gentle- 
men, who  had  given  up  dancing,  were  playing 
cards.  At  the  moment  when  Madame  de  Rueil 
entered,  one  of  them  turned  around,  laying  his 
hand  down  on  the  table.  He  was  tall  and  sinewy; 
his  short-cropped  hair  was  tinged  with  grey;  his 
nose  made  an  accentuated  curve  above  his  heavy 
moustache.  In  his  soldierly  face,  which  had  but 
a  limited  number  of  simple  expressions,  with  no 


140  THE   DIPLOMAT 

intermediary  shades,  his  first  impulse  could  be 
read  like  an  open  book.  He  could  not  disguise 
an  impression  of  annoyance,  which  Monsieur  de 
Rabelcourt  carefully  noted,  but  quickly  recover- 
ing himself,  like  a  well-bred  man,  he  rose  and  held 
out  his  hand : 

"Is  it  possible,  Uncle?"  he  said.  "Your  visits 
are  so  rare  to  us  that,  as  you  see,  I  am  all  aston- 
ishment. Are  you  on  a  mission  in  Berry?  " 

"Partially  so,  Nephew." 

"I  am  delighted,  because  I  hope  that  it  will 
keep  you  with  us." 

"Oh,  that  depends;  I  am  not  yet  settled,  you 
understand. " 

Monsieur  de  Rabelcourt  had  said  this,  with  his 
head  up,  his  eyes  fixed  on  those  of  Rueil,  who  tried 
to  comprehend.  But  the  young  man  did  not  try 
long,  and  half  a  minute  later  a  stifled  laugh  told 
the  players  in  the  small  drawing-room  that  the 
arrival  of  the  uncle  was  not  an  unmixed  source 
of  delight  to  the  nephew. 

The  diplomat  was  already  mingling  with  the 
guests  who  crowded  the  adjoining  room.  Guil- 
laumette  presented  him.  They  crowded  around 
him.  Some  of  the  elderly  ladies  recognised  him, 
having  met  him  either  at  the  famous  fete  of 
Monant,  or  at  Paris.  "The  dear  minister!  Mon- 
sieur de  Rabelcourt!  How  is  it  possible!  Who 
could  forget  you!  What  a  piece  of  luck  for 
Berry!  Do  you  remember  the  ball  at  the  Aus- 
trian Embassy,  at  the  end  of  the  second  Empire?" 
Monsieur  de  Rabelcourt  replied : 

"Perfectly." 


THE   DIPLOMAT  141 

He  remembered  everything.  He  had  ears  for 
everybody,  words  for  every  one,  and  eyes  for  all 
the  young  women  who  bowed :  "  Madame  de  Hulle, 
Uncle;  Madame  de  Houssy;  Madame  Guy  Milet; 
Madame  OTarell;  my  dear  friend  Baroness  de 
Saint-Saulge  ..."  At  the  same  time  whispered 
words  were  interchanged  behind  him:  "What  did 
you  say,  my  dear,  a  minister?"  "Yes,  plenipo- 
tentiary . "  "  Ah !  indeed,  where  ?  "  "  Formerly  in 
America,  I  do  not  know  precisely  where."  "Is 
he  an  entertaining  man  ?  "  "  Oh !  extremely ! ' ' 

Among  the  number,  insidiously,  according  to 
his  custom  and  without  discouraging  any  ad- 
vances, Monsieur  de  Rabelcourt  chose  the  priv- 
ileged ones  whom  he  desired  to  group  around  him, 
retained  them  with  a  word,  with  a  more  attentive, 
more  meaning  glance,  which  said:  "I  will  come 
back  to  you."  He  returned  soon,  in  fact,  after 
making  the  tour  of  the  room,  and  as  the  dancing 
began,  went  to  seat  himself  by  the  side  of  the 
Baroness  de  Saint-Saulge,  who  adjusted  her  train 
with  a  flattered  smile.  Two  dowagers,  not  expressly 
invited,  were  on  either  side  of  her;  a  few  quite  young 
married  women  made  a  circle  before  them.  Those 
less  young  and  less  ingenuous  preferred  to  dance. 
Monsieur  de  Rabelcourt  began  by  complimenting 
his  neighbour  in  a  very  low  tone,  upon  the  fashion 
of  her  dress.  The  seven  women  leaned  forward 
to  gather  the  words  of  the  former  minister,  and 
all  brightened  up.  Then,  feeling  his  words  lis- 
tened to,  studied,  master  of  his  audience,  feeling 
again  that  light  shiver  of  ease  which  old  birds 
must  feel  in  the  April  sunshine,  he  began  to  con- 


142  THE   DIPLOMAT 

verse.  The  history  of  the  Jacobson  concession 
had  again  a  revival;  they  saw  hammocks  hung 
with  blossoming  bindweed  reappear;  Pepita,  the 
Peruvian,  whose  name  closes  the  lips  for  a  double 
kiss;  Juana,  a  "gloomy  and  jealous  creature," 
besides  others,  whose  memory  skilfully  mingled 
with  the  names  of  emperors,  of  presidents  of  far- 
away republics,  of  rivers  and  mountains,  awoke 
in  the  youthful  listeners  of  Monsieur  de  Rabel- 
court  an  idea  of  diplomacy  new  to  them.  He 
told  a  story  well  and  without  hesitation,  on  ac- 
count of  the  great  experience  which  he  had  had 
with  the  same  stories;  he  could  lift  his  eyes  be- 
yond the  little  circle  and  note  what  took  place  in 
the  two  drawing-rooms.  He  noticed,  for  instance, 
that  Madame  de  Rueil,  invited  three  times  in  a 
brief  space  of  time,  had  refused  to  dance  and  had 
placed  herself  at  the  piano.  He  remarked  that 
she  was  a  little  flushed  and  agitated,  that  at  times, 
leaning  to  the  right  of  the  keyboard,  quite  at  the 
farther  end  of  the  room,  she  cast  a  glance  as  host- 
ess on  the  group  as  if  thinking:  "My  friends  do 
not  dance  any  more  since  uncle  is  here."  The 
uncle  thought:  "She  is  troubled."  That  did  not 
prevent  him  from  talking;  phrases  followed  each 
other  from  the  mouth  of  Monsieur  de  Rabelcourt 
as  music  from  the  piano,  equally  fluent,  full  of 
the  same  light,  commonplace,  and  measured  gaiety. 
Rather  quickly  they  produced  the  inevitable 
weariness  of  ordinary  music.  The  imprudent 
ones  who  had  sought  the  neighbourhood  of  the 
diplomat  became  conscious  that  the  latter  took 
more  pleasure  in  talking  than  they  in  listening; 


THE   DIPLOMAT  143 

they  recognised  that  they  were  simply  galvanising 
into  life  an  old  drawing-room  success;  that  the 
only  novelty  in  these  stories  of  America  was  their 
names,  that  they  had  better  ones  in  the  Old  World, 
and  they  regretted  letting  themselves  be  caught 
in  the  snare.  One  by  one,  they  moved  their 
chairs,  enlarging  the  circle,  sent  their  searching 
eyes  around  the  great  drawing-room,  summoning 
help  by  a  movement  of  the  eyelids,  let  themselves 
be  invited,  and,  excusing  themselves  with  a  pained 
gesture  to  Monsieur  de  Rabelcourt,  departed 
waltzing  away  to  return  no  more. 

Only  the  two  old  ladies  remained  in  the  cor- 
ner of  the  room,  to  whom  Monsieur  de  Rabel- 
court paid  very  little  attention,  but  who  expected 
still  less,  and  the  little  Baroness  de  Saint-Saulge, 
a  plain,  angular  woman  of  thirty-two,  who  pleased 
him  by  the  natural  insolence  of  her  wit,  the  ex- 
uberance of  her  gestures,  the  flutelike  tone  of  her 
voice,  by  the  vengeance  which  she  drew  from  her 
unattractiveness,  in  enduring,  as  if  they  were  ad- 
dressed to  another,  the  most  insistent  glances  and 
the  most  open  flattery,  and  especially  on  account 
of  the  intimacy  which  he  knew  now  existed  be- 
tween Madame  de  Rueil  and  this  country  neigh- 
bour. As  an  experienced  tactician,  he  reflected 
that  Guillaumette  might  conceal,  or  not  tell  all, 
while  he  had  there,  that  evening,  an  unique  occa- 
sion to  get  information,  a  witness,  who  could  not 
be  ignorant  of  anything,  and  who  no  doubt  de- 
manded nothing  better  than  to  be  indiscreet.  To 
question  without  betraying  anything,  to  use  vague 
words  in  the  hope  of  attracting  precise  replies, 


144  THE   DIPLOMAT 

to  have  the  air  of  knowing  everything  in  order  to 
obtain  a  secret,  such  had  been  the  classic  process 
of  Monsieur  de  Rabelcourt  in  public  life.  He 
resolved  to  use  it  again. 

As  soon  as  he  felt  himself  alone,  or  nearly  so, 
with  Madame  de  Saint-Saulge,  he  turned  away 
insensibly  from  the  dowager  on  the  right,  made  a 
change  to  the  left,  and  leaning  over  the  armchair 
in  which  the  baroness  was  plunged,  he  said : 

"I  see  with  pleasure,  Madame,  that  you  are 
one  of  the  best  friends  of  my  niece.  The  dear 
child  has  need  of  support!" 

"Yes,  we  understand  each  other  admirably  well, 
although  our  dispositions  are  very  different." 

"There  are  circumstances,"  observed  Monsieur 
de  Rabelcourt  sententiously,  "which  bring  to- 
gether the  most  opposite  natures." 

"We  live  very  near  each  other,"  replied  Ma- 
dame de  Saint-Saulge.  "We  knew  each  other 
before  these  last  months,  it  is  true,  but  we  have 
been  especially  intimate  during  this  long  leave  that 
Monsieur  de  Rueil  has  passed  entirely  at  Monant. 
I  come  here,  she  comes  to  me,  that  is,  they  come. 
Yes,  I  am  very  fond  of  her,  the  poor  darling,  she 
is  so  good,  so  forgetful  of  herself!" 

"You  pity  her,  Baroness,  since  you  say  poor?" 

"  The  term  is  applied  as  often  to  the  rich !  AYho 
is  there  that  has  not  his  little  troubles?  Even  the 
happiest,  even  Guillaumette?  " 

He  bent  a  little  lower  and  murmured : 

"You  know  all,  then  —  you,  too?" 

Madame  de  Saint-Saulge  moved  in  her  arm- 
chair slightly  so  as  to  re-establish  the  distance  that 


THE   DIPLOMAT  145 

Monsieur  de  Rabelcourt  was  trying  to  lessen;  she 
looked  fixedly  at  the  diplomat,  asking  herself: 
"What  does  he  mean?  What  is  he  alluding  to? 
I  only  know  very  simple  things  on  the  subject  of 
this  straightforward  and  very  happy  household. 
Let  this  old  ferreter  come  to  the  point,  and  let 
us  not  make  any  advances!"  She  replied,  there- 
fore, in  the  most  matter-of-fact  tone,  playing  with 
the  chain  of  her  gold  lorgnette,  which  she  rolled 
upon  the  handle  of  her  fan : 

"What  do  you  mean,  Monsieur?" 

"That  Guillaumette,  in  the  first  place,  seems 
preoccupied." 

"I  don't  think  so." 

"She  keeps  looking  at  us,  do  you  see?" 

"Apparently,  she  is  fond  of  both  of  us." 

"She  does  not  dance!" 

"That  is — quite  natural." 

"No,  Madame,  it  is  not  natural,  she  used  to 
adore  dancing — she  is  suffering.  Do  not  try  to 
deceive  me !  I  have  guessed  the  wrong  which  has 
been  done  her,  the  abandonment,  the  neglect, 
poor  child!" 

Madame  de  Saint-Saulge  gave  a  start,  she 
raised  her  eyes  eagerly,  which  had  been  following 
the  courtesies  of  the  eight  dancers  in  the  minuet, 
and  took  her  lorgnette  the  better  to  gaze  at  Mon- 
sieur de  Rabelcourt.  In  the  glance  with  which 
she  scanned  the  troubled  face  of  her  interlocutor 
there  beamed  all  her  amused  youth,  her  great  con- 
tempt for  the  shrewdness  of  men,  her  delight  in 
finding  an  opportunity  of  ridiculing  a  diplomat, 
the  roguishness  of  the  child  persisting  and  living 


146  THE   DIPLOMAT 

in  the  woman  of  thirty.  Inclining  her  head  a 
little,  delighted  to  feel  contempt  for  Monsieur 
de  Rabelcourt: 

"Do  you  allude  to  their  intimacy?"  she  asked. 

"Precisely." 

"It  is  very  great." 

"I  was  sure  of  it!"  said  Monsieur  de  Rabel- 
court, growing  bolder.  "I  guessed  it  by  certain 
signs!  But  what  a  sad  thing,  Madame,  and  im- 
probable!" 

"Improbable?  No,  I  expected  it  and  others 
with  me,  everybody " 

She  smiled.  He  assumed  a  still  more  serious 
air  to  add : 

"Indeed?  Does  the  neighbourhood  suspect 
something?" 

"It  is  only  a  suspicion,  still  vague.  It  is  so 
recent!" 

"Two  months  perhaps?" 

"Assuredly  not  more  than  three,"  said  Madame 
de  Saint-Saulge,  laughing  outright. 

"I  envy  you,  Madame,"  said  Monsieur  de 
Rabelcourt,  "that  you  can  speak  of  such  a  sit- 
uation with  so  much  indifference.  You  are  not, 
like  myself,  bound  by  close  ties  of  relationship 
with  Guillaumette.  Tell  me,  has  she  reproached 
her  husband?  Have  there  been  scenes?" 

"About  that,  I  know  nothing!"  answered  the 
young  woman,  opening  her  fan.  "No  one  can 
know  anything  of  that — you  ask  me  for  details 
of  an  intimacy " 

"So  much  the  better,  a  thousand  times  better, 
Madame!  I  am  glad  that  there  is  no  scandal. 


THE   DIPLOMAT  147 

A  mere  murmur  in  the  vicinity.  My  niece  is  so 
proud  that  she  has  concealed  everything.  People 
do  not  reproach  her,  I  hope,  for  the  slightest 
fault?" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  that  fidouard  is  the  only  one  at  fault 
and  that  is  just  what  I  thought!" 

"Why,  no,  Monsieur,  he  is  not!" 

"You  absolve  him?"' 

"Certainly!  An  accomplished  man,  serious 
and  gay,  a  charming  man  whom  every  one  likes!" 

"She  is  the  one,"  thought  Monsieur  de  Rabel- 
court.  He  rose  severe  and  incapable  of  restrain- 
ing his  indignation. 

"Madame,"  he  murmured,  "you  are  very- 
young,  but  even  at  the  risk  of  appearing  to  you 
to  belong  to  the  iron  or  stone  age,  I  must  think 
Monsieur  de  Rueil's  conduct  unqualifiable." 

The  Baroness  de  Saint-Saulge,  struggling  with 
a  mad  desire  to  laugh,  replied  after  a  moment : 

"What  a  droll  dictionary  you  have,  Monsieur!" 

"It  is  not  a  question  of  dictionaries,  Madame, 
it  is  the  foundation  even  of  our  feelings  which  dif- 
fers— completely — completely. ' ' 

He  bowed,  and  the  young  woman  followed 
with  her  eyes,  in  which  the  smile  had  died,  this 
singular  uncle,  whom  she  had  not  yet  catalogued 
in  her  rich  collection  of  worldly  souvenirs. 

It  was  warm.  The  evening  lacked  animation 
after  the  arrival  of  this  inconvenient  personage, 
who  seemed  to  monopolise  the  attention  of  Ma- 
dame de  Rueil  from  the  distance  and  that  of  Ma- 
dame de  Saint-Saulge  near  by.  It  dragged  on  for 


148  THE   DIPLOMAT 

half  an  hour  more,  until  refreshments  were  served, 
then  the  noise  of  carriages  arriving  one  by  one 
before  the  chateau  made  the  window-panes  rattle. 
The  neighbours  took  leave  with  the  usual : "  Charm- 
ing evening,  adieu,"  which  was  not  wholly  so 
false  as  elsewhere.  Madame  de  Saint-Saulge,  on 
taking  leave  of  her  friend,  whispered  in  her  ear: 

"What  a  delightful  man  your  uncle  is!" 

"You  think  so?" 

"It  is  impossible  to  be  bored  an  instant  with 
him.  He  has  imagined  a  crazy  story  about  you. 
I  misled  him,  and  wre  ended  by  abusing  each  other. 
I  will  come  and  tell  you  about  it  in  the  morning." 

Guillaumette  replied  with  her  habitual  calm 
smile : 

"  Do  so,  dear.    Till  to-morrow  then." 

And  she  remained  in  the  drawing-room  alone 
with  Monsieur  de  Rabelcourt,  while  her  husband 
accompanied  a  group  of  friends  to  the  steps. 

Scarcely  was  the  door  closed  when  Monsieur 
de  Rabelcourt,  seized  again  by  the  idea  of  his  mis- 
sion, approached  his  niece  and,  pressing  her  hands 
between  both  of  his,  said  to  her  tragically,  in  hur- 
ried words : 

"We  have  but  a  moment,  Guillaumette.  .  .  . 
I  know  enough.  You  will  tell  me  the  rest.  We 
will  act  together,  my  poor  child." 

She  did  not  seem  to  understand. 

"But  I  have  nothing  to  tell  you,  my  dear 
Uncle!" 

"Do  not  dissimulate.  Nothing  this  evening, 
but  to-morrow.  You  have  sent  for  me?" 

"No." 


THE   DIPLOMAT  149 

"Your  letter!" 

Guillaumette  de  Rueil  blushed  to  the  roots  of 
her  fair  hair.  Embarrassed,  hesitating,  confused, 
she  remained  a  moment  without  saying  anything, 
asking  herself  if  it  were  necessary  or  not  to  con- 
fide in  her  uncle,  who  had  so  little  discretion, 
whom  she  had  been  wrong  to  alarm.  She  de- 
cided in  the  negative,  and  putting  her  two  arms 
on  the  shoulders  of  the  old  man,  smiling  and  ca- 
ressing, she  kissed  him,  saying : 

"  I  wrote  that  in  a  moment  of  folly.  You  will 
know  all  some  day  soon,  I  promise  you.  Do  not 
be  alarmed  at  a  trifle.  I  do  not  think  now  what  I 
did  when  I  wrote.  ...  If  you  wish  to  give  me 
pleasure " 

"Yes,  certainly!" 

"  Then  do  not  insist.  Forget  the  letter.  Above 
all,  never  allude  to  it  before  Edouard.  He  would 
be  furious  with  me." 

"  Come,  my  dear  Uncle,"  said  Edouard  de  Rueil, 
coming  in,  "let  us  have  a  game  of  billiards,  will 
you,  it  is  only  eleven  o'clock!" 

"I  thank  you,  Nephew,"  said  Monsieur  de 
Rabelcourt  coldly.  "I  feel  the  fatigue  of  one 
hundred  and  twenty-seven  leagues  of  railway 
travel  in  my  body  and  of  many  cares  in  my  mind. 
May  I  ask  you  to  ring  for  the  valet,  Guillaumette. 
I  will  retire." 

A  moment  later,  upon  the  first  flight  of  the 
stairway,  the  very  dignified  Monsieur  de  Rabel- 
court, followed  by  his  enlarged  shadow  turning 
on  the  wall,  mounted  in  placing  his  two  feet  on 
each  step  and  by  little  jerky  strides  displaying 


150  THE   DIPLOMAT 

the  form  and  the  elasticity  of  his  calf.  Before 
him,  the  valet  carried  the  candle.  In  the  large 
drawing-room,  behind  the  half-closed  door,  Mon- 
sieur and  Madame  de  Rueil  were  seized  with  a 
sudden  fit  of  merriment,  and  the  former  said: 

"What  is  the  matter  with  him,  with  your  wor- 
thy uncle,  Guillaumette?  I  find  him  most  de- 
pressing! Have  you  any  idea  why  he  has  that 
manner  with  me?" 

"Not  yet.    I  will  find  out  to-morrow." 

"  At  least,  I  hope  that  he  has  not  come  to  stay?  " 

"Ihope- 

"  You  did  not  invite  him?" 

"Oh!    Not  exactly." 

"Deliver  me  from  him,  I  say!  For  our  last 
days — that  would  be  gay!  We  must  go  back  to 
Limoges  at  the  end  of  the  week.  If  he  remains 
here — well,  I  consider  my  leave  already  at  an 
end." 

She  reflected  a  moment  and  said : 

"I  will  find  a  way  by  sleeping  on  it." 

He,  accustomed  to  her  having  wit  for  two, 
looked  at  her  with  admiration,  took  her  at  her 
word,  and,  already  relieved,  said: 

"Shall  we  go  up,  too?" 

And  they  went,  without  valet  and  without  for- 
mality. 

III. 

Monsieur  de  Rabelcourt  slept  little;  the  fa- 
tigue of  the  journey,  the  change  of  bed,  and  chil- 
dren's cries  penetrating  through  the  ceiling,  from 


THE   DIPLOMAT  151 

the  nursery  on  the  second  floor,  kept  him  awake 
a  part  of  the  night.  He  had  time  to  make  a 
plan  of  battle.  In  spite  of  all,  his  mind  was 
rested;  his  ideas  took  shape  of  themselves;  his 
old  experiences  counselled  him  without  even  hesi- 
tating on  the  way  to  act. 

"  I  am  in  the  presence  of  a  very  simple  and  well- 
known  case.  A  wife  has  been  betrayed.  It  is 
she.  In  the  first  moment  of  her  indignation  she 
seeks  a  deliverer,  a  man  who  may  be  a  discreet 
confidant  and  a  natural  protector.  That  is  my- 
self. This  friend,  this  relative  hastens  to  her;  she 
loses  her  head  at  the  thought  of  completing  the 
avowal,  of  analysing  herself,  her  wrong;  she  hesi- 
tates through  modesty,  through  fear  also  of  the 
necessary  consequences  and  of  the  explanation 
which  has  not  taken  place,  the  anger,  the  probable 
separation.  What  must  he  do?  Firstly,  remain 
so  as  to  add  to  the  proofs  which  he  possesses 
already,  and  secondly,  as  soon  as  he  has  his  file 
of  papers  complete  lay  it  before  this  too  weak 
woman,  say  to  her  paternally :  '  I  have  no  need 
of  admission;  the  proof  is  obtained;  let  us  act!'" 

At  the  hour  of  the  early  breakfast  he  found  the 
family  assembled  in  the  dining-room.  The  chil- 
dren were  all  ready  for  company  in  immaculate 
frocks,  seated,  according  to  size,  by  the  side  of 
their  mother;  Jean  and  Pierre  in  blue,  Louise  in 
pink,  little  Roberte,  supported  by  her  mother's 
arms,  standing  tottering  in  her  wool  socks. 

"Good  morning,  Uncle!"  Three  fresh  voices 
saluted  Monsieur  de  Rabelcourt,  who  came  in, 
three  smiles  welcomed  him,  followed  him  as  he 


.152  THE   DIPLOMAT 

approached,  and  were  effaced  when  the  absorbed 
and  not  very  paternal  uncle  gave  to  each  child, 
as  a  reward,  a  little  tap  on  the  cheek. 

"Are  they  not  darlings?"  asked  Guillaumette. 
"Whom  do  they  resemble?" 

"My  dear,"  replied  Monsieur  de  Rabelcourt, 
"I  never  judge  women  before  twenty  or  men  be- 
fore thirty." 

He  pressed  the  hand  of  Edouard  de  Rueil,  who 
half  rose  from  the  chair  where  he  was  seated  and 
said: 

"Well,  Uncle,  have  you  your  plans  for  to-day?" 

"Always,  Nephew." 

"I  will  wager  that  one  is  to  see  again  Madame 
de  Saint-Saulge.  You  know  you  paid  her  the 
most  assiduous  attentions  last  evening.  Confi- 
dences, affected  airs,  discreet  laughs,  nothing  was 
lacking." 

"Except  perhaps  sympathy,"  answered  Mon- 
sieur de  Rabelcourt,  seating  himself  before  his 
cup  of  chocolate. 

"What  do  you  say!"  cried  Guillaumette,  who 
was  fastening  the  napkin  behind  Roberte's  neck. 
"Therese  did  not  please  you?  She  charms  every 
one!" 

Monsieur  de  Rabelcourt  cast  a  pitying  glance 
on  her,  as  on  a  child  who  does  not  comprehend, 
and  fixing  his  gaze  on  Monsieur  de  Rueil,  who 
looked  up  a  little  astonished  from  the  opposite 
side  of  the  table : 

"A  giddy-head!"  he  said. 

"A  woman  full  of  good  sense,  full  of  heart," 
said  fidouard. 


THE   DIPLOMAT  153 

"You  are  not  mistaken  on  the  last  point,  Mon- 
sieur de  Rueil.  I  believe  that  she  has  enough  for 
two."  He  laughed  one  of  his  laughs,  which  he 
termed  sardonic,  but  which  was  like  all  the  others. 

"Your  best  friend?"  he  added. 

"Certainly." 

"  Guillaumette  told  me  so,  Madame  de  Saint- 
Saulge  confirmed  it,  and  you  repeat  it.  I  have 
not  the  least  doubt,  but  I  think  that  Guillaumette 
might  have  chosen  better.  This  intimate  friend," 
he  emphasised  the  epithet,  "talked  to  me  in  a 
way  ..." 

"Frivolous,  Uncle?"  interrupted  Monsieur  de 
Rueil,  whose  strong,  stern  countenance  beamed 
with  satisfaction.  "You  must  have  challenged 
it  then.  I  know  you;  you  are  a  hermit,  but  not 
a  strict  one.  Confess  now  that  you  told  some 
tales  of  South  America  to  Madame  de  Saint- 
Saulge." 

"No,  Monsieur,  the  stories  came  from  her. 
They  were  stories  of  this  country,  of  your  neigh- 
bourhood, of  your  immediate  neighbourhood." 

He  paused  to  judge  of  the  effect  of  his  words, 
which  did  not  appear  to  be  considerable.  And 
raising  his  voice,  flushed,  his  lips  tightly  pressed, 
Monsieur  de  Rabelcourt  added: 

"Without  insisting  further  for  the  present,  I 
repeat  to  you  that  she  flaunted  before  me  an  easy 
code  of  morality,  more  than  easy.  ...  I  make 
no  pretensions  to  being  a  model,  but  between  her 
code  of  morals  and  mine,  Heaven  be  praised,  there 
is  an  abyss." 

"My    dear    Uncle,"   exclaimed    Guillaumette, 


154  THE   DIPLOMAT 

troubled  at  the  turn  the  conversation  was  taking, 
"I  assure  you  that  you  are  mistaken.  She  must 
have  been  joking.  She  is  bright  and  she  loves 
controversy.  When  you  become  better  acquainted, 
you  will  see  that  the  abyss  is  a  very  shallow  ditch." 

"You  are  blind,"  said  Monsieur  de  Rabelcourt. 
"But  Monsieur  de  Rueil  should  understand  me 
better.  I  would  prefer  to  see  your  baroness  ten 
leagues  from  here." 

"Speak  for  yourself!"  said  Rueil,  who  was  get- 
ting irritated. 

"I  speak  for  you,  on  the  contrary;  for  you  per- 
sonally," said  Monsieur  de  Rabelcourt.  "  I  would 
rather  see  her  a  hundred  leagues  from  here  than 
in  your  house." 

"Madame  la  Baronne  de  Saint-Saulge  would 
like  to  speak  to  madame,"  announced  the  valet, 
opening  the  door.  "I  have  shown  her  into  the 
small  drawing-room." 

Guillaumette  de  Rueil,  after  an  instant  of  sur- 
prise, recalled  the  rendezvous  made  the  evening 
before;  and  leaning  over  her  four  besmeared  chil- 
dren who  had  finished  their  breakfast  without 
breathing  a  word : 

"My  darlings,"  she  said,  "you  must  ask  your 
great-uncle  for  his  most  beautiful  story  of  Amer- 
ica. You  are  going  to  see  how  good  they  are, 
Monsieur  le  Ministre!"  she  added,  laughing. 
"Spoil  them  for  ten  minutes,  and  do  not  malign 
my  friend  behind  my  back;  that  would  be  to 
betray  her." 

She  cast  a  glance  full  of  prudent  recommenda- 
tions to  her  husband,  to  which  Edouard  de  Rueil 


THE   DIPLOMAT  155 

replied  by  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders,  which  said: 
"I  will  be  silent,  but  do  not  leave  me  long  with 
your  uncle;  he  exasperates  me." 

She  crossed  the  room  and  went  out.  Monsieur 
de  Rabelcourt  looked  at  his  nephew  fixedly,  fin- 
ished his  chocolate  without  saying  another  word, 
and  went  up  to  his  room. 

"Edouard  de  Rueil  did  not  detain  him. 

IV. 

After  five  minutes'  conversation  the  two  young 
women  rose  and  kissed  each  other.  There  were 
tears  in  the  eyes  of  Madame  de  Rueil.  The  other 
was  laughing. 

"You  are  silly,  Guillaumette,  to  cry  because 
your  uncle  is  not  a  good  psychologist." 

"To  suspect  my  husband!  To  invent  such  a 
story!  To  talk  about  it  at  a  ball  in  my  house! 
To  assume  the  appearance  of  a  judge  before 
Edouard,  who  has  not  a  fault,  whom  I  love,  whom 
I —  You  must  admit  that?" 

"Why  did  you  write  to  him?" 

"I  did  not  know  what  I  was  about." 

"Then  tell  all  to  your  husband." 

"He  will  be  angry  with  me.  He  will  think  me 
silly,  and  he  will  be  right.  And  yet,  if  I  do  not 
say  anything,  we  shall  have  a  family  scene,  Rabel- 
court against  Rueil." 

"Do  better  than  that." 

"What  shall  I  do?" 

"Turn  Edouard  over  to  me.  I  invite  him  for 
breakfast.  Everything  is  arranged;  my  carriage 


156  THE   DIPLOMAT 

is  waiting  at  the  end  of  the  park;  we  will  start  at 
once,  he  and  I;  I  will  keep  him  until  five  o'clock; 
that  will  give  you  time  to  bring  your  uncle  to 
reason,  and  when  they  meet  again  there  will  be 
no  more  clouds  to  forge  thunderbolts." 

"Admirable!  But  say  nothing  about  my  let- 
ter?" 

"I  promise." 

GuUlaumette  dried  her  eyes,  crossed  the  room, 
half  opened  the  dining-room  door  and  pressing  her 
head  in  the  opening: 

"Good  news,  Sdouard,"  said  she.  "The  house 
is  untenable  with  this  poor  uncle,  who  seems  to 
me  more  and  more  eccentric.  Madame  de  Saint- 
Saulge  has  come  to  your  rescue;  she  invites  you 
to  breakfast." 

"I  fly!"  said  Rueil.  "Try  to  get  rid  of  him. 
But  what  has  he  against  me  anyway?" 

"I  will  explain  that  to  you,"  said  Madame  de 
Saint-Saulge,  taking  him  by  the  arm. 

They  went  down  the  steps  together,  and  Ma- 
dame de  Rueil  watched  them  as  they  walked  slowly 
down  the  sunny  avenue  leading  toward  the  woods, 
which  began  half-way  down  the  slope.  Her  par- 
asol concealed  Madame  de  Saint-Saulge's  head, 
but  the  gay  note  of  her  laugh  made  itself  heard. 
The  officer  shook  his  head  as  if  to  say:  "It  is  not 
credible!"  made  gestures  with  his  cane,  bent 
down  to  hear  what  his  neighbour  was  saying  and 
the  confidences  must  have  been  amusing,  for 
they  moderated  their  youthful  pace.  They  made 
a  pretty  group:  he,  in  a  close-fitting  suit  of 
blue  which  revealed  his  tall  form;  she,  dressed 


THE   DIPLOMAT  157 

in  a  light  billowy  gown,  striped  with  mauve,  her 
long  skirt  trailing  over  the  grass  and  sand,  looked 
like  a  great  white  poppy.  Guillaumette  followed 
them  with  her  glance  through  the  window,  and 
as  they  were  about  to  reach  the  turn  of  the  grove 
and  to  disappear  under  the  trees,  she  observed 
her  friend  lift  up  her  parasol,  look  for  a  second  in 
the  direction  of  the  house  and  at  once  take  a  more 
rapid  gait.  Madame  de  Saint-Saulge  was  fleeing 
with  her  invited  guest. 

From  whom? 

The  question  was  not  long  in  being  answered. 

Coming  out  from  the  shadow  of  the  right  tower, 
passing  between  the  central  clump  of  vervains 
and  the  bunches  of  petunias  which  edged  the  turf, 
launched  with  all  the  swiftness  which  the  rotund- 
ity of  his  figure  permitted,  Monsieur  de  Rabel- 
court  appeared.  He  was  running  in  the  same 
direction.  His  head  which  he  held  forward, 
his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  end  of  the  avenue,  fol- 
lowed the  fugitives.  He  had  seen  them  from  his 
room.  Doubting  his  eyes,  he  had  examined  with 
his  field-glass  this  pair  of  young  people  who  were 
making  their  escape  so  resolutely  and  so  gaily 
into  the  country.  It  was  he!  It  was  she!  Mon- 
sieur had  not  an  instant's  hesitation.  He  seized 
his  cane,  hurried  down-stairs,  opened  the  door 
cautiously.  He  had  sworn  an  oath  to  catch  them; 
and  with  his  whole  power,  he  was  striving  to  keep 
his  word. 

Madame  de  Rueil  guessed  that  the  promena- 
ders  were  hastening  their  pace  on  his  account.  But 
she  hesitated  to  believe  that  her  uncle  was  trying 


158  THE   DIPLOMAT 

to  overtake  them.  For  a  moment  she  watched 
the  lessening  silhouette  of  Monsieur  de  Rabel- 
court.  Soon  doubt  was  no  longer  possible.  "  Good 
gracious!"  she  thought,  "he  is  chasing  them!" 

She  opened  the  window  and  called: 

"Uncle,  Uncle!" 

He  did  not  hear,  or  pretended  that  he  did  not. 
His  shoulders  twisting,  his  legs,  which  described 
unusual  curves,  raising  a  cloud  of  dust  at  each 
step,  his  silk"  hat  shaken  by  the  run,  he  con- 
tinued on  the  way  to  the  sheltered  paths  in  which 
Madame  de  Saint-Saulge  and  Edouard  de  Rueil 
had  just  disappeared. 

Guillaumette  wished  for  a  horse,  a  bicycle,  for 
wings  to  fly  after  him,  to  stop  him,  to  prevent  a 
scene.  Agitated,  anxious,  unable  to  think  how 
to  prevent  the  meeting  of  the  adverse  parties, 
she  caught  her  garden  hat,  pinned  it  quickly  on 
her  head,  and,  taking  a  path  which  crossed  the 
lawn  and  reached  the  woods  on  the  right,  she 
plunged  into  the  thicket,  to  meet  her  uncle  at 
least  on  his  return  from  the  other  end  of  the  park, 
by  the  most  direct  path. 

She,  too,  walked  very  quickly.  She  seated  her- 
self on  a  bench,  in  an  opening  where  three  diverg- 
ing paths,  full  of  quivering  shadows  rocked  by  the 
wind,  could  be  seen.  Madame  de  Rueil  listened, 
her  ear  strained  toward  the  distance  below,  in 
which  this  chase  of  a  diplomat  running  down  an 
intrigue  in  flight  was  continuing.  After  some 
moments  she  heard  a  voice  deadened  by  the  dis- 
tance and  the  leaves.  The  voice  was  raised  three 
times  and,  although  the  words  could  not  be  dis- 


THE   DIPLOMAT  159 

tinguished,  it  was  clear  that  they  were  violent 
and  that  they  commanded.  Then  silence  ensued; 
the  woods  were  asleep  in  the  heat.  In  the  cut- 
tings and  thickets  around  Monant,  you  felt  this 
long  shivering  of  twigs,  which  the  ear  confounds 
with  silence  and  which,  at  certain  hours,  grows 
faint  like  the  roar  of  the  sea,  diminish  and  die 
gradually. 

Ten  minutes  passed;  suddenly  Madame  de 
Rueil  waved  her  parasol,  signalling : 

"Here  I  am!    Come!" 

Monsieur  de  Rabelcourt  emerged  from  the  end 
of  a  green  path.  He  saw  his  niece.  He  was 
walking  with  a  less  rapid  gait  than  on  leaving  the 
chateau,  but  it  was  still  nervous  and  strained. 
He  appeared  to  be  carrying  on  a  lively  conversa- 
tion with  himself;  he  twirled  his  cane,  now  and 
then  cutting  off  shoots  of  brambles;  he  raised 
his  shoulders,  straightening  up  as  if  an  adversary 
were  before  him.  As  soon  as  he  came  in  reach  of 
her  voice,  Madame  de  Rueil  cried  to  him: 

"Did  you  overtake  them?" 

"Yes." 

She  turned  pale;  he  drew  near. 

"What  did  you  do  then?  Uncle,  I  am  so  dis- 
tressed! What  did  you  do?" 

"My  duty!" 

He  was  flushed  and  panting,  still  filled  with 
the  pride  of  his  victory;  but  there  was  pity  min- 
gled with  it  for  this  young  wife,  who  was  watch- 
ing him  come  from  the  distance,  and  was  so 
troubled.  Monsieur  de  Rabelcourt  stopped  near 
her  and  said: 


160  THE   DIPLOMAT 

"Do  not  be  alarmed,  my  poor  darling!  Do 
not  be  agitated;  let  me  relate  the  affair  from  the 
beginning." 

But  she  drew  him  to  her,  moved  aside  a  little 
and  made  him  sit  down  near  her: 

"Quick,  quick,  tell  me,  on  the  contrary,  what 
has  just  happened.  I  am  so  unhappy!  It  is  all 
my  fault — I  ought  to  have  explained  my  letter 
to  you — you  did  not  understand  it— 

"Everything,  my  child,  everything!" 

"No,  you  did  not!" 

"Let  me  speak.  You  will  see.  But  don't  in- 
terrupt me  any  more!  Yes,  your  letter  gave  me 
the  first  suspicion,  almost  the  certainty.  I  hasten 
to  Monant;  I  find  you  agitated;  I  see  your  hus- 
band annoyed  at  my  coming;  I  question  Madame 
de  Saint-Saulge,  she  confesses 

"What?     Since  there  is  nothing. " 

"She  confesses  this  betrayal  from  which  you 
are  suffering,  unhappy  child,  and  which  you  wish 
to  hide  from  me  now!"  resumed  Monsieur  de 
Rabelcourt,  raising  both  arms.  "She  avowed  it 
with  perfect  cynicism  to  me,  your  uncle,  in  your 
house!  Ah!  I  did  not  miss  her  just  now!  I  saw 
your  husband  with  her  in  the  path,  I  ran  after 
them.  Anger  restored  my  youth,  I  did  not  catch 
up  with  them,  for  they  almost  ran,  but  I  got 
near  enough  for  my  voice  to  carry,  and " 

"Great  heavens,  what  did  you  say?" 

"I  cried  at  the  top  of  my  lungs:  'Monsieur  de 
Reuil,  you  are  betraying  your  most  sacred  duties, 
but  hereafter  there  is  a  witness;  I  am  the  one!" 

"  What  did  he  do?    Was  he  angry?  " 


THE   DIPLOMAT  161 

"No." 

"At  least,  he  replied  very  sharply?" 

"Not  at  all.  In  place  of  stopping,  he  went  on 
running;  he  merely  looked  over  his  shoulder  and 
threw  this  simple  impertinence  at  me:  'Au  revoir, 
you  old  sheep!'  while  his  accomplice,  still  more 
giddy  than  he,  hurried  him  along;  I  heard  them 
laughing,  Guillaumette,  laughing  after  they  were 
out  of  sight!" 

"Ah!  so  much  the  better!  So  much  the  bet- 
ter!" 

She  could  not  utter  another  word.  Tears,  nerv- 
ous agitation,  the  rebound  of  the  emotion  which 
she  had  felt,  prevented  her  from  speaking;  half 
turned  toward  Monsieur  de  Rabelcourt,  she  made 
a  sign  with  her  lashes,  with  her  lips  lifted  at  the 
corners,  with  all  her  pretty  fair  head,  and  said: 
"Do  not  mind  me,  I  was  afraid,  I  was  faint  for  a 
moment,  but  I  am  happy,  enchanted,  pleased,  and 
I  will  explain!" 

Monsieur  de  Rabelcourt  thought  her  out  of  her 
senses.  He  looked  at  her  in  silence,  he  studied 
the  changing  play  of  her  face  and  her  expressions 
which  were  effaced  one  after  the  other;  he  felt 
some  anxiety  and  remorse  in  the  presence  of  his 
niece  as  one  does  before  one  of  those  pretty,  frag- 
ile toys  whose  spring  you  have  unintentionally 
snapped,  without  knowing  how  to  mend  it. 

She  mended  herself  all  alone. 

Suddenly,  Madame  de  Rueil  stopped  crying; 
she  seized  both  her  uncle's  hands  and  became 
grave,  affectionate  even.  Having  recovered  her 
frank  expression,  she  said: 


162  THE   DIPLOMAT 

"My  dear  Uncle,  it  is  my  fault,  but  you  have 
made  a  grievous  mistake!" 

At  that  moment,  she  resembled  so  greatly  per- 
sonified reason,  she  had  such  an  air  of  conviction, 
that  he  lost  his.  Monsieur  de  Rabelcourt  felt 
that  he  had  blundered,  and  blushed  beforehand 
for  what  he  was  going  to  learn. 

"What  mistake,  Guillaumette?"  he  demanded. 
"Are  you  not  unhappy?" 

"I  was  for  twenty-four  hours.  I  am  not  so 
any  longer. " 

"Has  not  your  husband  deceived  you?" 

"He  is  the  most  faithful  and  the  most  loving 
of  husbands!" 

"I  did  not,  however,  dream  my  conversation 
with  Madame  de  Saint-Saulge?" 

"It  was  a  joke!" 

"  She  spoke  to  me  of  an  intimacy  of  fidouard's?  " 

"With  me." 

"She  has  just  taken  him  home  with  her." 

"With  my  full  consent;  he  breakfasts  at 
Roches." 

"Then,  why  the  devil  did  you  call  me?" 

"I  did  nothing  of  the  kind!" 

"Oh!  indeed!    What  do  you  call  your  letter?" 

"My  dear  Uncle,"  said  Guillaumette,  in  her 
sweetest  voice,  "you  must  not  get  angry  with  me; 
you  have  too  much  experience  not  to  know  that 
even  the  happiest  of  young  women  have  moments 
when  they  detest  life,  when  their  youth  is  no  con- 
solation to  them,  indeed,  quite  the  contrary.  I 
went  through  one  of  these  crises.  My  letter  was 
written  by  your  Guillaumette,  already  burdened 
with  rather  a  large  family! " 


THE   DIPLOMAT  163 

"Jean,  Pierre,  Louise,  Roberte,"  counted  the 
uncle. 

"In  six  years,"  she  resumed.  "The  mother 
wished  for  a  little  liberty,  a  little  vacation.  She 
had  the  disagreeable  surprise " 

"You  are?" 

"Yes,  Uncle;  a  little  fifth!" 

"With  your  slim  figure!" 

"We  will  baptise  it  at  Limoges,  this  winter." 

"And  that  is  all  your  trouble!" 

"It  is  quite  enough!    Do  not  get  angry!" 

"And  you  had  the  face  to  write  to  me  for  such 
a  little  thing  that  you  would  like  to  start  with 
me  for  Buenos  Ayres?" 

"  I  was  sorry  for  it  the  next  day." 

"And  you  gave  me  three  weeks  of  distress 
by  explaining  nothing  to  me!  You  make  me 
take  a  journey  of  one  hundred  and  twenty-seven 
leagues;  I  arrive,  I  believe  that  you  are  betrayed, 
I  suspect  Madame  de  Saint-Saulge,  I  offend  your 
husband,  I  risk  making  trouble  between  two 
households,  and  I  seriously  compromise  my  repu- 
tation as  a  man  of  the  world  and  a  diplomat,  and 
when  the  evil  is  done,  you  mean  to  tell  me  that 
all  this  fine  despair  came  to  you  from  what  is 
called  a  hope!  Really,  my  dear,  it  is  unpardon- 
able!" 

Monsieur  de  Rabelcourt  drew  away  his  hands, 
which,  until  then,  Guillaumette  de  Rueil  had  re- 
tained in  her  own,  and,  offended,  straightening  up 
against  the  back  of  the  bench,  he  began  to  look 
vaguely  at  the  forest  trees. 

The  young  wife  did  not  try  to  defend  herself, 


164  THE   DIPLOMAT 

she  felt  that  she  was  at  fault;  but,  remembering 
the  recommendations  of  Edouard  and  the  time 
which  was  passing,  she  tried  to  find  out  the  inten- 
tions of  Monsieur  de  Rabelcourt.  From  the  other 
end  of  the  bench,  her  eyes  vague  also  and  dreamy, 
she  said : 

"I  take  it  upon  myself  to  reconcile  you  with 
Madame  de  Saint-Saulge." 

He  made  no  answer. 

"  The  most  difficult  thing  will  be,"  she  continued, 
"to  make  my  husband  listen  to  reason.  He  will 
pardon  you,  Uncle,  without  any  trouble! — but  it 
will  be  necessary  to  confess  to  him  that  I  wrote  that 
peevish,  ridiculous  letter.  And  I  am  so  worried. 
He  will  be  only  too  much  disposed  to  think  as 
you,  that  I  had  no  sense  on  that  day  in  not  keep- 
ing silent,  and  that  I  had  less  yesterday  evening 
in  keeping  silent. — He  is  so  good  to  me  that  his 
reproaches  are  infinitely  hard  for  me." 

Monsieur  de  Rabelcourt  let  her  continue  her 
monologue  without  interrupting  her. 

At  the  end  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  he  sighed, 
his  features  relaxed,  he  looked  at  his  niece  with 
eyes  in  which  there  was  much  indulgence  and  a 
little  regret. 

"Come!"  said  he,  "let  us  return  to  the  cha- 
teau. I  will  make  the  explanation  very  easy  for 
you.  Fear  nothing.  Are  you  able  to  walk  back?  " 

Both  rose.  As  they  were  going  up  the  steps, 
Monsieur  de  Rabelcourt,  who  had  recovered  his 
good  humour  more  from  moment  to  moment, 
added : 

"All  the  same,  the  trip  will  not  have  been  with- 


THE   DIPLOMAT  165 

out  benefit  for  me.  It  will  have  recalled  to  me 
what  we  men  are  always  tempted  to  forget,  that 
one  should  never  hurry  to  help  a  woman  who 
complains.  Order  the  horse  to  be  harnessed,  my 
little  Guillaumette." 

Some  moments  later,  as  the  victoria,  which 
was  used  to  go  from  Monant  to  the  neighbour- 
ing station,  was  carrying  away  Monsieur  de  Rabel- 
court  and  turning  the  corner  of  the  chateau,  the 
diplomat  put  his  head  out  of  the  carriage,  com- 
pletely restored  to  serenity,  already  smiling  at 
the  shadows  of  Wimerelles,  and  bowing  to  his 
niece,  who  was  leaning  out  of  a  low  window,  he 
cried : 

"Good-bye,  Guillaumette,  good-bye!  Do  not 
disturb  me  for  the  sixth!" 


THE  WILL  OF  OLD  CHOGNE. 


THE  WILL  OF  OLD  CHOGNE. 


NOTHING  told  the  hour,  unless  it  was  the  silence. 
It  must  have  been  near  midnight,  or  a  little  after 
the  dead  point  of  the  dial,  in  that  brief  period,  when 
the  very  watch-dogs  rouse  themselves  with  dif- 
ficulty. Only  at  long  intervals  there  came  a 
brief  lowing  from  the  stable,  the  cry  of  an  animal 
exhausted  by  the  accumulated  heat  which  the 
snow  on  the  roof  kept  stored.  No  noise;  no  light 
either  in  the  great  room  of  the  farm.  There  were 
two  men,  however,  seated  near  the  table  on  which 
the  masters  and  servants  of  the  Beinost  Farm 
ate  their  morning  and  evening  meals,  both  on 
the  same  side  and  looking  at  the  bed,  whose 
motionless  clothes  and  coverlid  were  raised  their 
whole  length  by  a  human  form.  Around  the  bed,  on 
the  right  of  the  fireplace,  the  sheets  dragged  on  the 
floor;  other  sheets  were  drying,  stretched  on  the 
back  of  a  chair,  in  front  of  the  scattered  logs  which 
were  growing  grey  with  ashes.  Elsewhere,  along 
the  walls  of  the  room,  as  in  all  farmhouses  of  the 
region,  there  was  a  provision  of  wood  carefully 
piled  up,  a  dish-closet,  a  clothes-press  crowned 
with  boots  with  widened  tops,  a  chest,  two  or 
three  sacks  of  potatoes  or  chestnuts.  These  ob- 

169 


170  THE   WILL  OF 

jects  emerged  from  the  shadows  very  vaguely. 
The  reflections  from  the  fields  of  snow,  which  do 
not  lose  all  light  at  night,  entered  through  the 
panes  of  opposite  windows  and  kept,  for  the 
accustomed  eyes  of  the  witnesses,  somewhat  of 
the  life  of  colours  and  of  outlines.  At  last  the 
men  spoke  in  an  undertone. 

"He  has  not  budged  for  an  hour,"  said  one. 

"I  do  not  hear  his  breath  any  longer,"  replied 
the  other. 

"He  passed  away  so  suddenly,"  resumed  the 
elder,  "  that  there  was  not  time  to  have  him  make 
his  will.  It  can't  be,  however,  that  Melanie 
should  share  with  us  in  father's  property." 

"No,  that  mustn't  be!  The  meadow  must  be 
ours,  and  the  vineyard  below  too,  and  the  whole 
Farm." 

"Then  you  agree  with  me,  Francis?" 

"Yes." 

"Entirely?" 

The  younger  replied  with  a  nod,  accompanied 
by  a  lowering  of  the  eyelids,  which  signified:  "I 
know  what  I  have  to  do;  it  is  useless  to  talk." 
He  was  young,  thin,  and  colourless,  with  yellow 
hair,  an  aquiline  nose,  and  light-coloured,  con- 
tinually shifting  eyes.  Some  people  took  him  for 
a  creature  of  little  judgment;  they  did  not  notice 
the  brief  laugh  which  barely  stretched  his  lips 
and  cheeks,  but  in  which  a  resolute  and  cunning 
spirit  was  shown. 

Anthelme,  the  elder,  a  heavy,  bearded,  thick- 
faced,  and  flat-nosed  peasant,  gave  one  the  im- 
pression of  brutal  and  impelling  strength,  but  he 


OLD   CHOGNE  171 

had  his  share  of  cunning  too,  which  he  cloaked 
under  the  violence  of  words,  tone,  and  gesture. 
Habitually,  people  heard  only  of  him  at  the  Beinost 
Farm.  The  real  master  was,  however,  the  father, 
who  had  just  died  and  after  him  the  younger  son, 
who  was  like  his  father.  Francis  was  the  first 
to  rise. 

"Go  and  fetch  Biolaz,"  he  said;  "I  will  get  the 
witnesses  and  arrange  the  rest." 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  the  great  black  mare, 
whose  mouth,  drawn  too  early  by  the  bit,  had 
remained  stretched  as  if  by  a  stupid  laugh,  waited, 
in  the  snow,  in  the  farmhouse  court.  Francis 
stood  by  the  sleigh;  he  had  a  last  injunction  to 
give,  and  when  the  stable  door  opened,  he  said : 

"Anthelme,  don't  talk  too  much  with  Biolaz!" 

He  went  in  immediately,  shaking  his  jacket. 
Anthelme  had  wrapped  himself  up  in  a  lined 
carter's  coat,  a  wretched  cloak  which  had  been 
used  for  twenty  years  by  all  the  cowherds  of  the 
Farm,  and  his  head  almost  disappeared  in  the 
funnel  of  the  high  collar.  He  came  forward  car- 
rying before  him  the  lighted  lantern,  which  he 
fastened  in  an  iron  ring  on  the  right  of  the  seat,  and 
then  he  started.  The  mountain  was  entirely  white, 
without  tree  or  bush  as  far  as  the  first  fields  of 
the  valley.  He  tried,  therefore,  in  the  radiance 
of  the  slopes,  to  recognise  the  path,  which  he 
could  not  leave  without  risking  his  life.  The 
snow  was  falling  softly.  The  villages,  below,  in 
the  icy  fog,  were  asleep.  No  sound  came  up  from 
the  valleys.  Nothing  was  moving,  in  that  win- 
ter's night,  unless  it  were,  very  high  up  on  the 


172  THE   WILL   OF 

Colombier,  the  flame  of  the  lantern,  which  made 
around  the  sleigh  a  tiny  halo  which  went  down  in 
zigzags  across  the  fields  of  snow. 

Anthelme  Chogne  was  going  to  fetch  the  no- 
tary. These  Chognes  were  known  in  the  moun- 
tain as  a  rich,  litigious  family,  at  all  times  to  be 
feared  by  those  who  were  not  of  use  to  them.  It 
was  a  saying  among  the  neighbours:  "One  never 
does  a  good  stroke  of  business  with  a  Chogne,  and 
those  are  lucky  even  who  do  not  do  a  bad  one." 
The  old  father  rarely  came  down  from  his  farm, 
perched  some  two  thousand  feet  up  in  the  air, 
in  the  bulky  part  of  the  Colombier,  where  the 
peaks  diminish  in  size  and  where  the  mountain 
spreads  out  its  sides.  When  summer  had  melted 
the  snows,  one  saw  nothing  around  the  Beinost 
Farm  but  poor  pasture-lands  strewn  with  stones 
and  unfenced  fields  where  the  surface  of  the  soil, 
scratched  by  the  plough  and  spade,  gave  back 
meagre  harvests  of  rye,  beans,  and  potatoes;  but 
below,  upon  an  old  marsh,  bordered  by  a  tor- 
rent, there  was  a  vineyard,  shaped  like  a  turtle, 
which  gave  a  pale-red,  piquant  wine  very  cele- 
brated in  the  neighbourhood.  This  vineyard  was 
the  pride  and  the  wealth  of  the  Chognes.  There 
was  besides,  above  the  farm,  a  pine  forest,  rising 
up  dark  and  crowded  together  to  the  summit  of 
the  chain,  which  did  not  belong  to  the  Chognes, 
but  which  they,  from  father  to  son,  exploited  and 
devastated  with  an  audacity  against  which  the 
owner  had  never  found  any  valid  defence.  Did 
trees  disappear?  No  one  had  ever  seen  the  wood- 
cutter who  cut  them  down.  Were  they  found 


OLDCHOGNE  173 

at  the  foot  of  the  mountain,  in  the  fold,  where 
the  trunks  of  trees  run  whether  borne  down  by 
avalanches  or  by  the  torrent?  The  Chognes  al- 
ways claimed  that  the  wood  belonged  to  them, 
that  it  came  from  a  cutting  on  the  outskirts 
bought  by  them,  and  proof  against  them  was  im- 
possible in  this  vast  and  sparsely  populated  coun- 
try, difficult  of  access  and  where  no  witness  would 
dare  to  say:  "Chogne  lies."  Father  Chogne,  of 
a  morose,  avaricious  disposition,  had  never  will- 
ingly tolerated  the  presence  of  a  woman  in  his 
house.  His  only  daughter,  Melanie,  grown  stupid 
from  want  of  care  and  lack  of  nourishment,  at 
the  age  of  fifteen  had  taken  a  place  as  servant 
at  Nantua.  She  was  now  twenty-five  years  old, 
and  it  was  she  whom  it  was  necessary  to  despoil 
of  the  vineyard  and  the  Farm,  and  of  all  that 
the  father  would  have  taken  away  from  her  if  he 
had  not  died  so  suddenly  on  that  winter's  night. 

Anthelme  put  the  mare  to  a  trot  on  reaching  the 
plain.  He  passed  hamlets,  one  after  another, 
without  stopping,  and  barely  slackened  his  speed 
in  going  up  the  slope  on  the  other  side  of  the  val- 
ley to  reach  the  pass  which  joins  Valromey  with 
Hauteville.  The  snow  was  soft  and  very  deep 
on  the  heights.  Fortunately  it  had  ceased  to  fall 
in  this  region.  The  sleigh  glided  along  a  wide 
road  marked  out  by  forests  or  clusters  of  trees. 
The  second  descent  was  easy  and  rapid.  The 
peasant  stopped  about  the  middle  of  the  principal 
street  of  the  town,  before  a  door  to  which  you 
mounted  by  four  steps,  provided  with  a  balus- 
trade; he  threw  the  blanket  over  the  mare,  whose 
body  smoked  like  a  pool  at  dawn. 


174  THE   WILL   OF 

"Hullo  now,  Monsieur  Firmin  Biolaz!"  he 
cried,  pulling  the  bell  at  the  same  time.  A  sharp 
and  prolonged  peal  answered  him,  a  trembling 
of  copper  wire,  which  died  away  slowly  and  with- 
out result.  It  was  only  at  the  third  call  that  the 
blinds  of  the  first  floor,  lightly  pushed  upon  their 
iron  hinges,  let  a  white  nightcap  appear  which 
waved  in  the  air,  and  a  voice  demanded: 

"Can't  you  ring  a  little  less  hard?  Who  are 
you?" 

"I  am  come  to  get  you  for  a  will." 

"Is  it  urgent?" 

"Yes,  very." 

"Then  I  will  go  in  the  morning.  Who  are 
you?" 

"In  the  morning!  No,  that  will  be  too  late! 
You  must  come  at  once.  Everything  is  ready." 

The  man  raised  his  voice  so  that  he  might  have 
been  heard  even  to  the  depths  of  the  alcoves  where 
the  neighbours  were  sleeping  behind  their  drawn 
curtains. 

"Open  the  door,  Monsieur  Biolaz;  the  law  says 
that  notaries  cannot  refuse  clients!  Open!" 

The  blinds  drew  together.  Then  Anthelme 
heard  the  muffled  noise  of  the  paddings  of  the 
window  as  it  closed.  He  remained  outside  only 
long  enough  for  the  notary  to  light  a  candle,  ex- 
plain to  his  wife  that  there  was  no  danger,  put 
on  his  slippers,  draw  on  his  trousers,  tuck  in  the 
ample  folds  of  his  nightshirt,  and  come  down- 
stairs. 

"Come  in  quick,"  said  Monsieur  Biolaz;  "it  is 
devilishly  cold." 

"That  is  no  news  to  me!" 


OLDCHOGNE  175 

"This  way,"  said  the  notary,  pushing  open, 
on  the  left  of  the  corridor,  the  door  of  his  office. 
He  went  in  first,  pushed  forward  a  chair,  in  the 
darkness  disturbed  by  the  flickering  candle, 
walked  around  the  desk,  and  seated  himself  in  his 
accustomed  place,  lifting  up  the  flat  candlestick 
to  study  his  client.  The  latter  unbuttoned  the 
collar  of  his  coat,  drew  out  his  beard,  upon  which 
bits  of  melting  snow  were  running,  took  off  his 
cap,  and  announced: 

"  I  am  Chogne,  Anthelme  Chogne  of  the  Beinost 
Farm." 

"Chogne!"  repeated  the  notary,  setting  down 
the  candlestick.  "Ah,  very  well!  Who,  then,  is 
sick  at  your  house?" 

"The  old  man;  he  will  not  live  through  the 
night;  that  is  certain." 

"Very  well,  very  well,"  repeated  the  notary. 
The  two  men  observed  each  other  during  a  half- 
minute  of  silence,  each  seeking  to  read  and  not 
to  be  read.  The  faces  remained  fixed,  inexpres- 
sive; nevertheless,  by  the  direct  communication, 
which  is  always  established  between  two  minds 
in  conflict,  Anthelme  understood,  he  plainly  saw, 
that  Monsieur  Biolaz  thought :  "  All  these  Chognes 
are  rascals;  let  us  be  on  our  guard."  Monsieur 
Biolaz,  on  his  side,  knew  to  a  certainty  that 
Anthelme  Chogne  of  the  Beinost  Farm  thought: 
"The  notary  has  heard  people  talk  about  us;  he 
does  not  think  very  well  of  us,  but  I  am  shrewder 
than  he."  This  man,  still  young  and  thick-set, 
recalled  by  his  spotted  red  face,  his  drooping  eye- 
lids and  the  nervous  twitch  which  drew  down  one 


176  THE   WILL   OF 

corner  of  his  lips,  his  regulation  short-cropped 
hair,  and  his  awkward  movements,  the  legendary 
type  of  foot-soldier  just  entering  the  barracks;  but 
he  had  always  lived  in  the  country  and  he  had 
fathomed  what  he  termed  "la  dinique  notariale." 
He  demanded: 

"Can  you  get  witnesses  at  this  hour  of  the 
night?" 

"They  will  be  at  the  Farm,  all  four,  when  you 
get  there.  Come  on!" 

The  peasant's  neck  swelled  out;  his  eyes  be- 
came bloodshot;  he  struck  the  table  with  his 
fist. 

"  Come  on !    Will  you  finally  decide  to  go?  " 

Monsieur  Biolaz  had  a  fluttering  of  the  eyelids 
and  a  kind  of  assent  of  the  head  which  Anthelme 
took  for  a  sign  of  fear.  He  made  no  answer,  but 
he  rose,  seized  a  bag  hanging  upon  the  green  wall- 
paper, and  slipped  some  legal  cap,  some  stamped 
paper,  some  pens  in  it,  and,  at  the  last  moment, 
an  object  contained  in  a  rectangular  leather  case, 
as  high  as  your  hand,  which  stood  on  the  desk. 

"You  don't  need  to  take  your  revolver,  you 
know!"  said  Anthelme  in  a  jeering  tone.  "The 
house  is  safe." 

The  notary  snapped  the  spring  which  closed  his 
bag. 

"Pass  first,  Monsieur  Chogne;  I  am  not  taking 
a  revolver,  it  is  a  small  instrument  with  which  I 
take  notes,  when  I  need  them." 

Anthelme  did  not  have  long  to  wait  in  the 
street.  Monsieur  Biolaz  reappeared,  in  high 
boots,  wrapped  in  a  goatskin,  dragging  a  fur  cov- 


OLDCHOGNE  177 

ering  after  him;  he  wrapped  himself  up  in  these 
furs,  stretched  himself  in  the  back  of  the  sleigh, 
without  making  an  observation  or  a  remark,  his 
bag  under  his  head,  and  murmured : 

"At  your  service,  Monsieur  Chogne!" 

During  the  greater  part  of  the  way  and  until 
he  had  reached  the  foot  of  the  mountain,  near  his 
vineyard,  Anthelme  appeared  to  have  no  other 
preoccupation  than  that  of  urging  his  already 
jaded  mare  to  a  gallop.  The  sudden  change  of 
speed  when  the  ground  rose  restored  speech  to 
the  driver.  Anthelme  turned  half  around  upon 
the  seat  of  the  sleigh.  He  recognised  by  the 
shapes  which  the  mist  was  taking  that  daylight 
was  approaching,  and  that  the  morning  would  be 
clear. 

"Monsieur  Biolaz,  do  you  know  my  father 
well?" 

"I  have  met  him  once  or  twice  at  fairs." 

"He  will  certainly  recognise  you;  he  has  a  good 
memory!  I  say,  Monsieur  Biolaz,  do  you  know 
my  brother  Francis  well?" 

"Not  at  all." 

The  peasant  whipped  up  his  exhausted  mare, 
adding: 

"Perhaps  he  will  be  there  and  perhaps  he  will 
not.  He  went  for  the  doctor  for  father,  you  see." 

They  were  watching  for  the  travellers  at  the 
Beinost  Farm,  and  as  soon  as  the  sleigh  drew 
up  before  a  kind  of  platform  which  extended 
behind  the  farmhouse  the  door  of  the  great  hall 
opened  and  a  man  came  out  in  the  darkness,  say- 
ing: 


178  THE   WILL   OF 

"Welcome!  Come  in  quickly!  He  is  still  alive, 
but  you  must  be  quick;  he  moans  continually." 

The  notary  entered.  The  room  was  lighted 
only  by  a  stable  lantern  of  convex  glass,  which 
was  placed  in  the  centre  of  the  table.  He  saw 
the  bed,  but  all  he  could  see  of  the  sick  man,  hid- 
den among  the  pillows  and  sheets,  was  a  cotton 
night-cap  and  an  indistinct  profile  turned  toward 
the  wall,  from  which  there  came  an  uninterrupted 
moan.  The  notary  walked  around  the  room  and 
stopped  by  the  fireplace  among  the  chairs  loaded 
with  linen.  The  bed-curtains  were  half  closed. 

"It  is  I,  Monsieur  Chogne,  it  is  I,  the  notary. 
Do  you  hear  me  well?" 

A  muffled  voice  replied : 

"Yes,  yes,  Monsieur  Biolaz  of  Hauteville.  Oh, 
dear,  dear!  My  dear  sir,  how  sick  I  am!" 

"Not  so  sick  as  you  think,  Monsieur  Chogne. 
.  .  .  Look  at  me." 

Several  voices  from  the  rear  of  the  room  pro- 
tested : 

"Let  him  be.  ...  He  is  sick  enough  as  it  is. 
Since  he  does  not  want  to  move,  why  disturb  the 
man?" 

They  heard  the  drawling  voice  of  the  notary : 

"Hand  me  the  lantern." 

The  words  fell  in  a  silence  as  profound  as  if 
they  had  been  uttered  in  the  midst  of  fields  of 
snow  and  the  fog  of  dawn.  Monsieur  Biolaz  re- 
peated them  with  the  same  tranquil  tone.  Then 
the  man  who  had  come  out  to  meet  him  in  the 
court,  a  very  tall  man,  with  his  hat  pulled  down 
over  his  eyes,  seized  the  lantern  by  the  copper 


OLDCHOGNE  179 

handle  and  lifted  it  up  without  leaving  the  middle 
of  the  room.  Monsieur  Biolaz  did  not  insist; 
but  he  looked  at  the  testator,  who  began  again 
to  moan,  bending  down  over  him ;  then  he  turned 
briskly  away.  In  the  back  of  the  room,  upon  a 
bench  along  the  wall,  three  other  peasants  were 
listening,  and  watching,  scarcely  breathing,  their 
heads  and  shoulders  bent  forward.  The  move- 
ment of  the  notary  made  them  start  like  persons 
caught  in  a  fault .  One  of  them  cried  ill-humouredly : 

"Ply  your  trade,  Monsieur  Biolaz,  instead  of 
swinging  yourself  about  like  that  in  your  goat- 
skin." 

The  notary  hesitated  no  longer;  he  had  the 
feeling  that  he  was  alone  against  five,  for  Anthelme 
came  in,  after  having  unharnessed  the  mare,  and 
said: 

"That  is  so;  bring  your  papers  over  to  the 
lantern,  Monsieur  Biolaz;  you  can  see  there  to 
write.  Unfortunately  we  have  no  more  oil;  it  has 
all  been  used  these  last  days,  you  understand." 

Then,  as  Monsieur  Biolaz  began  asking  the 
names,  surnames,  and  trades  of  the  witnesses,  he 
continued : 

"It  is  a  pity  that  my  brother  Francis  is  not 
back  in  time  for  father's  will;  that  will  be  a  grief 
to  him  for  his  whole  life." 

The  notary  appeared  to  be  no  longer  listening; 
he  was  drawing  up  the  will.  Spreading  a  sheet 
of  stamped  paper  where  the  light  of  the  lantern 
shone  on  it,  he  applied  himself,  his  forehead 
creased  with  a  single  wrinkle,  to  combining  his 
phrases  and  weighing  his  words.  The  witnesses 


180  THE   WILL   OF 

became  expansive.  They  chatted  with  each 
other. 

"In  the  presence  of  Monsieur  Firmin  Biolaz, 
appeared  Monsieur  Mathieu  Napoleon  Chogne, 
who,  believing  himself  to  be  mortally  ill,  re- 
quested the  said  Monsieur  Biolaz  to  draw  up  his 
will."  The  notary  put  down  afterward,  with 
minutiaB,  the  circumstances  of  date  and  place, 
describing  the  hall  of  the  Beinost  Farm  and  the 
sick  man  himself,  "as  far  as  I  could  see  him,"  he 
wrote.  He  then  asked  the  testator  to  dictate  his 
wishes  to  him.  Old  Chogne,  whose  speech  was 
interrupted  by  frequent  sighs,  groans  and  fits  of 
coughing,  dictated,  however,  some  phrases  which 
revealed  a  long  experience  in  business.  He  be- 
queathed, "as  preference  legacy  and  besides  their 
share,  to  his  sons  Anthelme  and  Francis,  all  that 
he  could  will  away  from  his  daughter  Melanie, 
and  this  in  gratitude  for  the  good  care  with  which 
they  had  surrounded  his  old  age."  He  expressed 
the  wish,  "which  should  be  sacred  for  all,"  that 
the  vineyard  should  belong  to  Francis  and  the 
Beinost  Farm  to  Anthelme.  The  drawing  of  the 
will  concluded,  Monsieur  Biolaz  read  the  deed 
aloud  and  rose  to  have  the  sick  man  sign.  Two 
of  the  four  witnesses  and  Anthelme  rose  at  the 
same  time,  going  between  the  notary  and  the 
bed.  The  two  others  crowded  in  the  little  space 
back  of  the  bed. 

"I  cannot  sign,"  groaned  the  sick  man;  "I 
am  not  able." 

"Don't  torment  him  again!  You  hear  what 
he  says,"  grumbled  the  men.  "Monsieur  Biolaz, 


OLDCHOGNE  181 

it  must  be  written  on  the  deed  <^hat  he  is  not  able 
to  sign.  Monsieur  Biolaz,  do  not  go  near  him 
like  that;  he  is  afraid  of  you,  you  see.  Leave  the 
lantern  on  the  table,  the  light  hurts  his  eyes." 

The  notary  was  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  which 
was  hidden  by  a  covering  reaching  down  to  the 
floor.  The  men  on  both  sides  of  the  sick  man 
moved  about,  bending  over  so  closely  to  speak 
to  him  that  his  face  could  not  be  seen. 

"  Isn't  it  true,  old  father,  that  you  cannot  sign? 
Say  it  again.  The  notary  must  go  now.  Sick 
persons  like  him,  Monsieur  Biolaz,  should  not  be 
annoyed." 

During  this  time,  the  notary  raised  cautiously, 
and  without  their  noticing,  the  covering  upon 
which  he  had  stepped.  He  had  felt,  through  the 
wool,  something  resisting  and  soft  at  the  same 
time;  he  had  followed  the  contour  with  the  tip 
of  his  boot,  and  without  for  a  single  instant  low- 
ering his  eyes. 

Had  not  the  witnesses  and  Anthelme  been  so 
intently  occupied  in  shielding  old  Chogne,  they 
would  have  noticed  Monsieur  Biolaz  turn  pale. 
The  notary  turned  his  head  toward  the  window, 
which  was  quite  clear.  The  daylight  without, 
clear  and  made  brighter  by  the  snow,  was  coming 
into  the  room.  He  moved  back. 

"Gentlemen,  I  will  add  the  legal  formula;  I 
will  write  that  the  testator  is  unable  to  sign. 
Come,  let  us  finish." 

At  once  they  resumed  their  places,  all  confront- 
ing him  on  the  other  side  of  the  table.  He  wrote 
the  phrase  with  his  right  hand;  with  his  left,  he 


182  THE   WILL   OF 

searched  in  the  travelling-bag,  taking  the  little 
box  out  of  its  case,  which  he  placed  standing  on 
the  top  of  the  table. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  that?"  cried 
Anthelme.  "I  do  not  permit!  .  .  .  Prevent  him!" 

"It  is  I  who  will  not  permit  you  to  hinder  the 
witnesses  from  signing!  Help,  witnesses." 

The  witnesses  put  the  struggling  Anthelme 
aside;  Monsieur  Biolaz,  turning  the  box  toward 
the  bed,  pressed  a  noiseless  spring,  then  hid  the 
object  in  the  pocket  of  his  goatskin  coat. 

At  this  instant  the  elder  of  the  Chognes  bounded 
to  the  bed,  bent  down,  pulled  to  the  floor  the 
covering  which  had  been  raised,  and  still  crouch- 
ing, his  fists  clinched,  sought  with  a  glance  for 
the  companion  who  would  help  him  commit  a 
crime.  They  could  easily  have  thrown  them- 
selves on  Monsieur  Biolaz,  searched  him,  bound 
him  if  he  had  resisted;  but  the  notary  seemed  so 
self-possessed,  so  entirely  occupied  in  arranging 
the  signatures,  that  the  eyes  to  which  Anthelme 
appealed  replied  with  an  expressive  look:  "It  is 
useless;  he  has  seen  nothing;  do  not  compromise 
everything!" 

"Imbeciles !"  exclaimed  Anthelme  aloud,  straight- 
ening himself  up  and  taking  his  place  as  sentry 
at  the  foot  of  the  bed. 

Monsieur  Biolaz  said  simply:  "Anthelme,  the 
first  witness  will  take  me  home.  Have  another 
horse  harnessed  to  the  sleigh." 

No  one  would  have  guessed,  when  the  notary 
stretched  himself,  for  the  second  time,  in  the 
wooden  cage  which  was  to  carry  him  back  to 


OLDCHOGNE  183 

Hauteville,  that,  in  the  same  hour,  he  had  dis- 
covered one  crime  and  committed  another. 

The  interment  of  old  Chogne  took  place  the 
second  day  after.  On  the  fifth  day,  early  in  the 
morning,  the  two  sons  presented  themselves  at 
the  office  of  Biolaz.  The  notary  was  expecting 
their  visit.  He  seated  them  before  his  desk  and 
remained  standing  on  the  other  side.  He  had 
his  usual  naive  air  and  drawling  tone,  but  his 
lips  twitched  more  nervously  than  usual. 

"Well,  what  do  you  want  of  me?"  he  asked. 

He  knew  very  well. 

"We  want  to  know  whether  you  have  had  the 
will  recorded,"  replied  the  elder. 

"For  my  sister  Melanie  agrees  to  all  that  father 
wished,"  added  the  younger;  "she  will  not  con- 
test the  will." 

Monsieur  Biolaz  collected  himself,  dropped  his 
eyelids  very  low,  turned  his  eyes  toward  An- 
thelme's  wolfish  face,  then  toward  Francis  with  his 
polecat  nose,  and,  pausing  between  the  words,  said : 

"The  will  has  not  been  recorded,  nor  will  it 
be;  it  is  null!" 

"Null!"  cried  Anthelme,  pushing  his  chair  back 
with  violence.  "It  is  not  null.  I  saw  it  and  I 
know  what  I  am  talking  about!" 

"You  would  have  to  prove  its  nullity!"  added 
Francis. 

The  two  brothers  were  standing  leaning  with 
their  hands  on  the  edge  of  the  desk. 

"Here  is  the  document,"  said  the  notary,  ta- 
king a  sheet  of  paper,  which  they  recognised.  "  It 


184  THE   WILL   OF 

is  thrice  null.  In  the  first  place,  you  see  this: 
'who  requested  Monsieur  Biolaz  to  draw  up  his 
will.'" 

"Well?" 

"There  should  have  been  put  in  also  'and  dic- 
tated it.'  The  mention  that  the  will  was  dictated 
is  necessary.  I  omitted  it." 

"Purposely?" 

"Yes." 

"Scoundrel!" 

"Wait,  Anthelme,  before  calling  names;  we  will 
see  which  of  us  three  deserves  it." 

"What  next,  Monsieur  Biolaz?"  Francis  asked. 

"  I  neglected,  in  addition,  to  indicate  that  I  read 
the  will  to  the  testator  and  witnesses;  and  lastly, 
and  third  nullity,  I  wrote,  it  is  true,  that  the  tes- 
tator was  too  feeble  to  sign,  but  I  did  not  state 
that  he  told  me  so  himself." 

The  little  sheet  fell  to  the  desk  noiselessly  as 
snow  falls.  The  three  men  were  seized  by  the 
same  emotion,  and  their  three  angers  met  in  the 
narrow  space  which  separated  their  faces,  arms, 
and  chests. 

"Own  up,  Biolaz,"  cried  Anthelme,  "in  public 
documents,  that  is  called  forgery!" 

"I  know  it." 

"An  act  like  that  leads  a  man  to  the  galleys!" 
exclaimed  Francis. 

"Certainly,"  answered  Monsieur  Biolaz,  "such 
an  act  leads  a  public  officer  to  the  galleys,  if  he 
has  not,  in  order  to  justify  it,  this  little  document 
here."  He  held  out  a  small  square  brown  paper. 
The  two  Chognes  recoiled. 


OLDCHOGNE  185 

"Oh,  you  can  take  it;  I  have  twenty  similar 
proofs,  and  the  plate  is  in  a  safe  place." 

It  was  the  younger  who  took  the  print  and  car- 
ried it  to  the  window.  The  proof  was  plain;  the 
bed-curtains,  the  sheets,  and  the  pillows  were 
rounded  up  in  hazy  folds  around  a  very  typical 
but  undecided  profile,  one  without  age.  But  in 
the  foreground,  at  the  spot  where  the  window 
poured  in  the  light  more  abundantly,  beneath  the 
bed,  could  be  seen,  could  be  distinguished,  two 
white  surfaces,  spreading,  joined,  which  ended  by 
indentations. 

"  I  have  examined  the  plate  with  a  magnifying- 
glass,"  said  Monsieur  Biolaz,  "and  there  is  no 
doubt  that  those  are  human  feet,  the  feet  of  the 
dead,  you  understand,  you  two  Chognes?  The 
feet  of  your  dead  father,,  whom  you  had  thrown 
under  the  bed!" 

Anthelme  and  Francis  did  not  turn  round;  they 
looked  at  each  other,  and  in  this  look  there  was 
the  command  to  Anthelme  to  keep  silent,  and  the 
confession  of  a  moment  of  confusion.  Francis 
turned  the  print  over,  examined  it,  at  close  range 
and  far  off,  to  gain  time.  Finally  he  spoke : 

"No  one  could  swear  that  they  were  the  feet 
of  a  dead  person,  Monsieur  Biolaz.  Neither 
would  it  be  possible  for  any  one  to  recognise  the 
face  in  the  bed;  it  is  too  small.  No,  there  is  no 
danger  for  us.  But  the  world  is  so  envious;  these 
things  would  make  a  noise;  people  would  talk 
about  it.  So  then,  my  brother  and  I,  we  will  let 
the  will  drop." 

The  notary  made  no  reply;  he  pointed  to  the 


186  OLDCHOGNE 

door.  They  went  out,  but  at  the  moment  of 
parting,  before  going  down  the  steps  of  the  porch, 
Anthelme  turned  around  and  said,  as  if  he  were 
confiding  a  secret: 

"You  are  sharp  in  your  trade,  Monsieur  Biolaz, 
for  all  that;  I  do  not  say  but  that  we  may  call 
upon  you  again  just  the  same." 

"Can't  you  hold  your  tongue?"  cried  Francis 
leading  him  away. 

Monsieur  Biolaz  pushed  the  door  and  heard 
with  satisfaction  the  click  of  the  latch,  which 
ended  the  visit. 


THE  LITTLE  SISTERS  OF  THE  POOR. 


THE  LITTLE  SISTERS  OF  THE  POOR. 


I. 

PERE  HONORE  LE  BOLLOCHE,  having  no  more 
work  at  all,  came  out  of  the  shed  where  he  worked, 
took  a  few  steps  outside  and  seated  himself  on 
the  chair  which  he  had  just  reseated;  for  he  was 
by  trade  a  chair-mender.  First  he  stretched  out 
his  wooden  leg,  then  the  other,  looked  in  his 
pouch  for  some  tobacco,  and,  not  finding  any,  felt 
that  he  was  poor. 

Poor,  Le  Bolloche  had  always  been,  but  he  had 
not  always  realised  it,  which  constitutes,  in  the 
main,  the  true  way  of  not  being  so.  In  the  army, 
for  instance,  when  he  was  sergeant  of  zouaves, 
what  had  he  lacked?  The  handsomest  man  in  the 
regiment,  a  long,  bronzed  face,  with  straight  nose 
slightly  flattened  and  widened  at  the  base,  an  im- 
perial which  would  have  made  more  than  one  cap- 
tain envious  at  that  Napoleonic  era  when  there 
were  such  decorative  captains,  shoulders  thrown 
back,  neck  tanned  and  furrowed  with  white 
grooves,  chest  swelled  out,  he  enjoyed  the  esteem 
of  his  comrades  in  arms  and  pay  ample  for  his 
wants.  His  record  bore  to  his  debit  only  a  few 

189 


190      THE   LITTLE   SISTERS 

insignificant  punishments  for  a  few  strong  military 
outbreaks  on  glorious  anniversaries :  a  hen  snatched 
from  the  Bedouins;  two  or  three  too  hasty  retorts 
to  his  superiors,  younger  than  he — mere  trifles! 
The  credit  side  was  magnificent:  five  campaigns, 
all  the  chevrons  possible,  honourable  mention  in 
the  order  of  the  day,  a  military  medal,  a  bugle 
for  marksmanship,  the  small  coin  of  a  general  in 
chief.  Several  times  he  had  marched  in  triumph 
through  towns,  under  arches  of  laurel,  walking  over 
flowers  and  applauded  by  women,  on  the  return 
from  Italy  or  from  the  Crimea.  On  those  occa- 
sions he  was  put  forward  on  account  of  his  im- 
posing bearing  and  certain  wounds,  which  he  had 
the  wit  to  receive  at  favourable  moments  and  in 
good  places :  a  sabre  cut  on  his  temple  at  Solf erino 
and  a  ball  in  the  calf  of  his  leg  at  MalakofF.  Le 
Bolloche  loved  glory.  Young  soldiers,  while  ad- 
miring him,  also  credited  him  with  a  crabbed  dis- 
position, but  his  superior  officers,  better  informed 
doubtless,  declared  that  it  was  only  his  keen  sense 
of  honour.  Heaven  had  given  him  a  constitu- 
tion proof  against  anything.  Le  Bolloche  was 
happy. 

Later  even,  struck  by  the  age  limit,  according 
to  his  expression,  he  met  after  leaving  the  regi- 
ment with  many  pleasant  experiences  in  this  civil 
life  which  before  he  had  daily  abused.  Accustomed 
to  be  commanded  and  to  be  surrounded  by  com- 
rades, his  liberty  weighed  upon  him  no  less  than 
his  solitude.  Still  hale  and  hearty,  and  with  agree- 
able manners  besides,  he  had  no  difficulty  in  find- 
ing a  wife.  His  wife  was  not  very  young,  but 


OFTHEPOOR  191 

he  was  beginning  to  grow  old.  She  brought  him, 
however,  what  passes  for  youth  in  the  eyes  of 
many  people :  a  dot — a  small  house  built  on  a  low 
piece  of  ground  beyond  the  octroi,  a  few  square 
yards  of  meadow-land,  or,  to  speak  more  clearly, 
two  strips  of  grass  on  a  slope,  crossed  in  winter 
by  a  small  stream  of  water,  of  which  there  re- 
mained in  summer  a  round  marsh  large  as  a 
thrashing-floor. 

The  vicinity  of  the  rushes  growing  there,  the 
ignorance  of  any  trade,  and  a  certain  deftness  of 
hand  were  the  reasons  which  led  the  old  soldier 
to  take  up  the  trade  of  new-bottoming  chairs. 
His  prices  were  not  excessive.  Business  came  to 
him  in  plenty  from  the  faubourg,  where  children 
took  it  upon  themselves  to  give  him  work.  He 
kept  his  health  and  for  several  years  Le  Bolloche 
had  no  reason  to  complain. 

On  the  contrary,  a  joy,  the  greatest  that  he  had 
ever  known,  came  to  him,  and  one  of  those  which 
lasts :  a  child.  He  had  wished  more  than  anything 
for  a  daughter.  The  one  his  wife  gave  to  him 
was  rosy,  fair,  and  gay.  Le  Bolloche  recognised 
himself  in  her  at  once.  It  was  an  instant  adora- 
tion. Although  far  from  being  a  devout  man, 
he  wished  to  carry  the  child  to  church  himself, 
and  when  the  priest  asked  the  name  with  which 
she  was  to  be  baptised — "Name  her  Desiree,"  he 
answered,  "for  I  have  never  desired  anything  as 
much  as  I  desired  her."  He  took  care  of  her  and 
had  more  to  do  with  raising  her  than  the  mother. 
When  a  mere  baby,  before  she  could  walk  even, 
she  crept  about  in  the  shed  while  he  worked. 


192      THE   LITTLE   SISTERS 

She  laughed  and  he  was  happy.  If  she  cried  he 
had  wonderful  ways  of  consoling  her:  he  rocked 
her,  sang  to  her  like  a  nurse  songs  which  have 
only  three  notes,  like  those  that  one  hears  in  the 
trees  at  nesting  time. 

She  had  barely  sense  enough  to  keep  still  and 
strength  enough  to  bend  a  rush  before  he  taught 
her  to  braid  cages,  baskets,  and  boats,  which  they 
went  to  launch  together  on  the  pond.  Later  the 
amusement  became  an  art.  She  soon  knew  all 
that  her  father  knew  and  more  besides.  He  was 
not  jealous  of  this;  he  trusted  to  her  the  fine 
work,  which  demanded  a  deft  hand,  taste  and 
invention.  And  whenever  a  bourgeois  chair,  that 
is,  one  not  coarsely  woven  of  rushes,  but  of  fine 
rye  straw,  braided  in  one  or  two  colours,  was 
sent  to  the  shop  with  a  seat  to  be  replaced  or 
merely  a  break  to  be  mended,  Le  Bolloche  trusted 
it  to  De'siree.  Raised  tenderly  in  this  way  among 
three  persons,  who  spoiled  her  to  her  heart's  con- 
tent, for  Le  Bolloche  had  brought  his  very  old, 
blind  mother  home,  it  was  scarcely  possible  that 
the  child  should  not  be  amiable.  In  fact,  a  more 
comely  girl  could  not  be  found  in  the  whole  fau- 
bourg or  in  the  neighbouring  country.  She  might 
have  passed  for  a  woman  at  fifteen.  She  was  tall, 
well  formed,  rosy-cheeked,  and  slightly  freckled. 
It  was  not  that  her  eyes  were  longer  or  larger  than 
another's,  but  that  she  looked  so  frankly  at  you 
that  you  divined  in  her  a  perfectly  sincere  nature. 

She  laughed  readily,  and  her  laugh  lingered,  like 
a  fresh  thing,  in  your  memory.  She  did  not  wear 
a  cap,  partly  from  economy,  still  more  to  show  her 


OFTHEPOOR  193 

hair,  rolled  back  from  her  forehead  in  two  gold 
waves,  which  she  twisted  up  roughly  in  the  back. 
Her  taste  led  her  to  wear  light  colours,  and  she 
often  pinned  a  sprig  of  red  fuchsia  on  her  calico 
waist. 

Provided  he  could  see  her  or  only  hear  her  near 
him,  Le  Bolloche  found  nothing  to  find  fault  with 
hi  life.  As  D6sire"e  did  not  stop  twisting  straw 
when  talking,  they  chattered  while  they  worked; 
as  she  was  already  at  the  age  which  dreams,  they 
talked  almost  always  of  the  future. 

It  was  at  this  time  precisely  that  the  ordeal 
began  for  Pere  Le  Bolloche.  First,  the  wound  of 
his  leg,  which  had  never  entirely  healed,  became  in- 
flamed. There  was  no  use  swearing;  gangrene  set 
in,  and  after  weeks  of  suffering  the  leg  had  to  be 
amputated.  The  whole  reserve  fund  of  the  house- 
hold was  spent  in  surgeon's  fees,  in  little  vials 
which  were  lined  up  on  the  mantel,  empty,  with 
their  red  labels.  The  sick  man  did  not  grow 
more  patient  lying  in  bed  and  seeing  his  money 
melt  away.  There  was  an  entire  season  of  con- 
valescence, and  when  he  resumed  his  place  in  the 
shed  he  very  soon  realised  that  he  had  lost  much 
more  of  his  body  than  he  had  thought.  Alas! 
sickness  had  consumed  the  suppleness  and  the  en- 
ergy, the  valour  of  the  muscles  which  in  short  is 
the  good  humour  of  our  limbs. 

Desire'e  was  there,  certainly,  each  day  more 
capable  of  earning  the  bread  for  the  household. 
Thanks  to  the  activity  of  his  daughter  and  to  a 
slight  advance  in  price,  Le  Bolloche  hoped  that 
the  three  women,  the  donkey,  hens,  and  cat,  which 


194      THE   LITTLE   SISTERS 

made  up  the  personnel  confided  to  his  care,  would 
not  feel  too  severely  the  results  of  this  accident, 
which  from  a  mere  wounded  man  had  made  of 
him  an  invalid.  He  might  earn  less,  perhaps, 
but  his  daughter  would  earn  a  little  more,  and  the 
result  would  be  the  same.  He  was  deceived.  A 
second  obstacle  and  an  invincible  one  arose.  Nei- 
ther father  nor  daughter  refused  work;  it  was  the 
work  which  began  to  fail.  From  one  season  to 
another  the  diminution  of  the  orders  became  more 
sensible.  At  first  there  were  hours  without  work, 
then  entire  days.  In  vain  Le  Bolloche,  with  his 
donkey  and  cart,  continued  to  scour  the  subur- 
ban quarters  and  call  up  to  the  windows,  where 
fan-shaped  ivy  geraniums  and  pyramids  of  pinks 
bloomed,  his  traditional  cry:  "Chairs  to  mend; 
chairs  to  mend!"  Less  and  less  frequently  did 
his  cry  find  an  echo.  What  was  the  reason? 
Progress,  the  invasion  of  luxury  which,  from  place 
to  place,  from  chateau  to  bourgeois  house,  and 
even  to  farmhouse,  supplants  old  tradition  and 
introduces,  in  the  place  of  massive  framed  chairs 
with  rush-covered  seats,  the  light  and  cheap  fur- 
niture made  in  the  factories  of  Paris  or  Vienna. 
The  triumph  of  rattan,  of  upholstered  chairs,  of 
woven  reed,  of  white  willow  rockers  by  which 
chair-menders  were  slowly  evicted.  A  trade  was 
dying!  How  many  others  have  disappeared  in 
the  same  way!  How  many  humble  workmen, 
with  a  desperate  astonishment,  have  felt  the  tool 
slipping  from  their  hands  and  the  trade  learned 
in  childhood's  days,  the  trade  which  had  honour- 
ably supported  their  father  and  had  sufficed  for 


OFTHEPOOR  195 

them  for  the  half  of  their  life,  become  thus  progres- 
sively hazardous  and  unproductive !  Is  there  any- 
thing so  cruel?  Some,  without  doubt,  can  seek 
another  trade.  But  the  old,  for  whom  the  time 
of  apprenticeship  is  passed,  nailed  to  these  ruined 
trades,  have  now  only  to  disappear  with  them! 
Such  was  the  case  with  Pere  Le  Bolloche.  The 
worthy  man  realised  it  fully.  He  let  things  go 
with  that  reservation  of  hope  which  we  have  as 
long  as  things  still  go.  Grass  began  to  invade  the 
workshop  under  the  bundles  of  yellow  rye  which 
were  rotting  under  foot.  The  rushes  and  reeds 
in  the  marsh,  formerly  cut  to  the  ground,  now 
grew  large,  swelled  and  mounted  in  tufts.  And  as 
the  majority  of  our  sorrows  here  below  have  a 
reverse  side  of  joy  for  some  one,  the  song-birds 
of  the  quarter  did  not  complain,  never  having, 
no,  nor  those  before  them,  found  so  much  down 
on  the  edge  of  the  pond  for  their  young.  He 
waited  until  the  end,  until  the  last  cent  of  their 
savings  was  spent.  And  behold,  that  hour  had 
arrived!  The  grandmother,  who  kept  the  ac- 
counts in  her  memory,  of  course,  and  guarded 
the  purse,  had  warned  her  son  that  very  morn- 
ing. A  resolution  must  be  taken,  an  expedient 
found,  for  the  next  day's  bread  was  no  longer 
assured.  That  was  what  Le  Bolloche,  his  long 
face  lengthened  still  more  by  sadness,  was  think- 
ing of  this  spring  day,  seated  at  a  little  distance 
from  the  shed. 

To  delude  his  passion  for  smoking  he  drew 
two  or  three  puffs  of  air  through  the  empty  bowl 
of  his  pipe,  and  the  first  idea  which  came  to  him 


196      THE   LITTLE   SISTERS 

was  that  he  might  do  without  tobacco;  he  felt 
that  he  was  capable  of  this  sacrifice.  But  it  did 
not  take  him  long  to  perceive  that  this  was  not 
a  solution.  Then  what  was  to  be  done?  Place 
Desiree  out  at  service?  He  would  never  consent 
to  that;  rather,  he  would  beg  his  bread.  Say  to 
the  old  mother:  "We  are  not  able  to  keep  you 
longer.  Seek  a  home;  ask  for  public  charity  .  .  ."? 
Away  with  the  thought !  Could  a  child  even  think 
of  it?  Sell  the  house?  It  would  be  necessary 
to  rent  another,  and  rents  had  doubled,  tripled, 
since  Le  Bolloche  had  lived  in  his  meadow  cor- 
ner. Where  would  be  the  advantage?  Plainly, 
there  was  but  one  solution,  that  of  which  his  wife 
and  he  had  already  spoken.  They  would  both  go 
away;  they  would  leave  the  house  to  the  grand- 
mother, who  was  too  old,  and  to  Desire"e,  who 
was  too  young  and  too  much  loved,  to  bear  such 
a  grief. 

Go  away!  When  he  had  reached  this  conclu- 
sion, Le  Bolloche  leaned  his  elbow  on  his  good  leg 
and  looked  slowly  around  him,  with  that  glance 
freighted  with  farewells  which  always  discovers 
some  new  beauty  in  the  most  familiar  things. 
The  meadow,  where  the  grass  was  springing  up, 
where  the  buttercups,  escaped  from  the  donkey, 
were  beginning  to  open,  appeared  to  promise  him 
an  abundant  hay  harvest.  The  hedges,  which  on 
three  sides  ran  around  it,  no  longer  had  a  puny 
and  withered  air  and  those  lamentable  holes 
which  they  once  showed.  Well  supplied  with  full- 
fledged  thorns,  supported  with  iron  wire  in  the 
weak  places,  they  defended  the  house  better  than 


OFTHEPOOR  197 

a  wall.  And  the  wall,  which  went  along  the  road, 
although  a  little  moss-grown,  was  still  solid  and 
upright.  Le  Bolloche  had  often  dreamed  of  build- 
ing a  house  there  for  his  son-in-law,  a  house  like 
the  other  which  was  on  the  half  slope.  Ah!  if 
trade  had  not  betrayed  him!  What  a  pretty 
view  they  would  have  had,  from  the  windows,  of 
the  street  which,  lighted  with  gas,  leads  up  to 
the  octroi,  so  gay  on  a  Sunday,  so  coquettish  with 
its  wine-shops,  painted  in  bright  colours,  its 
games  of  bowls,  its  yoke-elms,  and  its  great  gar- 
dens all  pink  with  peach-trees  in  bloom! 

At  this  moment  Desiree  appeared  at  the  top 
of  the  meadow,  returning  from  the  town.  The 
wind  had  tossed  her  hair  about;  she  was  walking, 
one  hand  hanging  down,  the  other  passed  through 
the  broken  seat  of  a  chair,  which,  hung  from  her 
arm,  surrounded  her  with  an  uneven  disk  of  yel- 
low rays.  The  young  girl  had  walked  two  miles 
to  find  this  work.  She  came  back  uncomplain- 
ing, happy  even,  in  the  light  of  the  setting  sun 
which  trailed  over  the  meadow.  When  Le  Bol- 
loche saw  her  he  understood  better  still  that 
separation  from  her  would  be  the  hardest  thing 
of  all,  that  in  comparison  with  that  the  others 
were  nothing. 

"Well!"  she  said  with  her  good-humoured  tone, 
"you  were  asking  for  work;  here  is  some!  A 
chair  such  as  you  like  to  new-bottom  in  coarse 
rush." 

"  No,  little  one,"  the  good  man  answered  sadly. 
"I  have  just  finished  my  last  chair  and  I  am  sit- 
ting on  it." 


198      THE   LITTLE   SISTERS 

She  drew  near  without  comprehending  what 
he  was  saying,  astonished  simply  that  he  should 
be  so  gloomy.  He  was  joyous  usually  when  she 
was  joyous.  What  was  the  matter  with  him? 

"Call  your  mother,"  Le  Bolloche  added;  "I 
have  something  to  say  to  her." 

She  went  into  the  house,  and  her  mother,  so 
tiny  under  her  enormous  cap,  came  out.  Le  Bol- 
loche led  his  wife  to  the  edge  of  the  stream  which 
ran  along  the  path.  He  told  her  his  plan,  not 
roughly  at  all  as  he  was  wont  to  do  when  he  told 
her  the  least  thing,  but  almost  softly,  much  troub- 
led himself  and  out  of  his  usual  temper.  Desiree 
watched  them  from  the  distance.  She  saw  them 
side  by  side,  he  stooping  down  a  little,  her  figure, 
on  the  contrary,  stiffened  and  her  head  uplifted. 
They  were  conversing  in  tones  low  in  spite  of  the 
calm  of  the  evening,  and  nothing  but  the  alter- 
nate buzzing  of  their  voices  and  the  regular  grind- 
ing of  the  leather  sheath  in  which  his  amputated 
leg  was  encased  was  heard. 

When  they  went  into  the  house,  Le  Bolloche 
seated  himself  in  front  of  the  grandmother,  sunk 
down  in  her  armchair  provided  with  pillows,  on 
the  right  of  the  chimney-place,  and  he  lifted  his 
hand  to  his  forehead,  to  salute  her  with  the  fa- 
miliar movement  of  the  old  soldier. 

"Mother,"  he  said,  "the  work  does  not  prosper 
any  more." 

"That  is  true,  my  son!" 

"I  still  eat  much  for  my  age,"  continued  Le 
Bolloche,  "more  than  I  earn.  This  state  of  things 
cannot  last.  I  must  go  away  with  Victorine." 


OFTHEPOOR  199 

The  old  woman  of  ninety,  heavy  as  she  was, 
began  to  tremble.  With  an  instinctive  move- 
ment she  tried  to  open  her  dead  eyes,  which  now 
made  only  a  slender  slit  in  the  wrinkled  recess  of 
the  orbit. 

"Go  away!"  she  exclaimed,  "and  where  would 
you  go,  Honore"?" 

Le  Bolloche  turned  half-way  around,  as  if  the 
grandmother  were  really  looking  at  him  and  he 
could  not  endure  her  glance.  He  answered  with 
some  confusion: 

"To  the  Little  Sisters  of  the  Poor;  Victorine 
claims  that  one  is  well  taken  care  of  there." 

The  old  woman  pulled  herself  up  by  the  arm 
of  her  chair. 

"I  am  the  one  who  will  go!"  she  said  with  that 
same  harsh  tone  which  she  had  transmitted  to 
her  son. 

"No,  mother,  no!  You  are  too  used  to  this 
place.  We  are  younger,  we  two,  sorrow  will  not 
kill  us!" 

"But,  my  child,  nothing  belongs  to  me  here. 
I  am  in " 

"Your  own  house,"  said  Le  Bolloche  quickly. 
And  this  man,  who  was  himself  old  and  infirm, 
had  the  inspiration  of  a  child  to  convince  his 
mother.  He  encircled  her  with  his  arms  and 
whispered  in  her  ear  with  a  playfulness  half 
feigned,  half  real: 

"Mamma,  when  I  was  with  the  regiment  and 
when  I  went  through  the  hundred  battles,  I  spent 
more  than  my  pay,  didn't  I?" 

"Yes." 


200      THE   LITTLE   SISTERS 

"Hundreds  of  sous,  ten  francs  a  week.  Who 
paid  for  it?" 

"I  did." 

"Have  I  paid  you  the  money  back?" 

"No." 

"Then  you  see  clearly  that  you  are  in  your  own 
house,  since  I  owe  you  that!" 

She  remained  a  moment  without  saying  any- 
thing, then  answered: 

"Yes,  I  am  willing,  only  you  must  take  with  you 
some  clothes  and  some  furniture  so  as  not  to  ar- 
rive there  like  a  beggar." 

"Provided  that  you  have  enough  left,"  said 
Le  Bolloche;  "I  do  not  ask  for  anything  better." 

The  grandmother  did  not  say  anything  more. 
It  was  ended.  Among  the  poor,  effusive  thanks 
are  unknown.  There  were  none  in  this  case.  The 
grandmother,  who  held  her  hands  clasped  across 
her  bosom,  raised  them  twice  only  to  show  how 
deeply  she  was  touched.  That  was  all. 

They  seated  themselves  for  supper  around  a 
salad,  which  the  meadow  had  furnished  them. 
Saddened  by  the  thought  of  a  change,  so  great 
and  so  near,  they  did  not  speak.  What  was  the 
use?  The  same  regret  weighed  on  them  all. 
They  had  struggled  to  the  end.  Poverty  was 
the  strongest.  What  was  the  use? 

However,  Le  Bolloche  noticed  that  the  grand- 
mother ate  nothing.  She  moved  her  lips,  as  if 
she  dared  not  ask  a  question  which  troubled  her. 
Several  times,  the  words  stopped  thus  upon  her 
lips.  At  last,  she  made  an  effort  to  control  her- 
self, and  with  a  voice  full  of  anguish,  asked : 


OFTHEPOOR  201 

"Honore,  are  you  going  to  leave  me  De*siree?" 

Two  deep  sighs  answered  her,  yes. 

Then  one  could  have  seen  the  countenance  of 
the  aged  woman,  unexpressive  and  relaxed  like 
all  faces  to  whom  impressions  no  longer  arrive 
through  the  eyes,  light  up  with  a  sudden  light. 
Joy  broke  the  darkness  of  this  blind  face.  It 
seemed  as  if  the  soul  drew  near  and  smiled  through 
it.  At  the  same  time,  the  old  couple  looked  at 
De"sire"e  with  the  same  dejected  look.  The  place 
which  the  young  girl  held  in  their  hearts  was 
shown  thus,  without  speech,  more  eloquently  than 
by  words.  For  a  child  can  be  shared.  One  is 
enough  for  several  old  people.  And  when  these 
poor  people  had  come  to  live  under  the  same  roof, 
mother,  son  and  daughter-in-law,  it  was  not  only 
their  small  patrimony,  which  they  had  put  in 
common,  nor  the  courage  which  goes  from  one 
to  the  other  of  those  who  work  together,  nor  the 
mutual  aid  which  their  poverty  lends,  it  was 
more,  it  was  most  of  all  the  youth  of  Desire"e. 

The  supper  over,  Le  Bolloche  shook  himself  a 
little  to  chase  away  this  sadness  unworthy  of  a 
man.  While  his  wife  helped  the  grandmother  to 
bed,  he  drew  Desiree  outside  and,  in  the  warmth 
of  the  night  already  come,  began  walking  with 
her  from  the  shed,  which  ended  the  house  on  the 
right,  to  the  hutch  in  the  latticework  nailed  to 
the  wall  on  the  left. 

Perceiving  that  her  eyes  were  red,  he  said: 

"Come,  come,  Desiree,  that  will  pass!  Cour- 
age! Look  at  me.  I  do  not  cry,  and  yet  I  am 
sorry  to  leave  you,  believe  me,  especially  to 
leave  you  unmarried!" 


202      THE   LITTLE   SISTERS 

"Why  so?" 

"Because  it  was  my  wish  to  see  you  established. 
We  would  have  chosen  your  husband  together, 
an  old  soldier  like  myself.  While  down  there, 
you  understand— 

He  did  not  finish  his  thought,  and,  crossing  his 
arms,  he  stood  still,  fixing  his  eyes  in  the  eyes  of 
his  daughter: 

"At  least,  tell  me,  before  I  go,  a  thing  which 
I  would  like  to  know." 

In  her  turn,  she  looked  at  him  with  her  frank 
glance  in  which  there  shone  the  brightness  of  the 
stars. 

"Have  you  a  sweetheart?" 

The  question  struck  De*siree  as  droll;  she  re- 
plied, laughing  in  spite  of  her  sadness : 

"Why,  no,  father,  I  have  no  one." 

"It  is  true,  you  hardly  ever  go  anywhere,  and 
they  never  see  you.  If  those  who  are  of  the  age 
to  seek  a  wife  had  seen  you!  Well,  Desiree,  if 
you  are  of  my  blood,  as  I  believe,  you  will  never 
marry  any  one  but  a  retired  soldier." 

"A  retired  soldier?" 

"Oh!  he  may  be  retired  without  being  old! 
Provided  that  he  has  carried  arms  and  made  a 
campaign,  that  will  be  enough  for  me,  I  shall  be 
satisfied.  Every  soldier  is  not  decorated  as  I 


am." 


"Surely." 

"About  the  regiment,  I  leave  you  the  choice. 
A  zouave,  naturally,  would  suit  me  best,  but  you 
can  also  marry  a  cavalryman.  There  are  some 
fine  little  dragoons." 


OFTHEPOOR  203 

"Well,  then,"  replied  the  young  girl,  "a  zouave 
or  a  dragoon." 

"Even  a  rifleman,  that  is  a  choice  corps,"  re- 
sumed Le  Bolloche,  "but  not  an  infantryman, 
you  understand?  " 

"No." 

"Above  all  not  a  civilian!  What  would  I  find 
to  talk  about  with  him,  when  I  saw  him?  Re- 
member that,  Desiree,  if  you  bring  me  a  'Blue/ 
a  man  who  has  never  seen  service,  I  refuse!" 

He  became  quite  pompous  in  saying  that,  one 
arm  extended  toward  the  town.  This  old  non- 
commissioned officer  had  never  been  able  to  get 
rid  of  a  certain  leaning  to  melodrama.  The  pom- 
pousness  of  his  speech  meant  nothing,  however; 
De'sire'e  knew  that.  She  was  about  to  answer 
"no,"  doubtless  to  please  him,  but  Le  Bolloche, 
letting  his  eyes  follow  the  direction  of  his  uplifted 
arm,  saw  the  slate  roofs,  one  above  the  other 
shining  under  the  moonlight  like  silver  shells;  the 
rising  line  of  street  lamps  which,  in  the  blue  im- 
mensity of  the  night,  look  like  miserable  yellow 
points — the  whole  quarter,  which  he  had  so  often 
traversed  for  so  many  years.  How  many  tran- 
quil people  he  knew,  behind  those  lighted  windows, 
certain  of  sleeping  to-morrow  in  the  same  room, 
where  they  were  still  awake  this  evening!  The 
thought  hurt  him;  he  turned  abruptlv  away  say- 
ing: 

"Let  us  go  in,  Desiree,  the  dew  is  falling." 


204      THE   LITTLE   SISTERS 


II. 

The  next  day,  on  the  road  leading  to  the  Little 
Sisters  of  the  Poor,  to  Jeanne  Jugan,  as  they 
called  it  in  the  faubourg,  a  donkey  dragged  the 
strangest  load  which  had  ever  weighed  upon  his 
pack-saddle  of  poverty.  In  the  first  place,  upon 
the  seat  of  the  low  cart,  Le  Bolloche  in  a  brown 
frock  coat,  his  zouave  cap  on  his  head,  and  by 
his  side  his  wife  in  her  best  dress  of  checked  fus- 
tian, her  eyes  wet  with  tears  behind  her  horn 
spectacles;  then,  exactly  upon  the  line  of  the  axle, 
a  pyramid,  made  up  of  a  box  in  which  their  every- 
day clothes  were  placed;  a  second  box,  pierced 
with  holes,  which  contained  a  family  of  rabbits, 
accustomed  to  the  dim  light;  and  crowning  all  a 
basket,  from  which  emerged,  in  white  and  black 
tufts,  the  feathers  of  a  couple  of  Barbary  fowls, 
who  were  kept  in  the  basket  by  rods;  lastly,  three 
pots  of  sweet  basil,  one  large  one  flanked  by  two 
smaller  ones  of  luxuriant,  rounded,  superb  growth, 
lashed  by  a  cord  to  the  floor  of  the  vehicle,  ended 
the  load  in  the  back.  There  was  besides,  between 
the  two  good  people,  a  small,  thin  grey  cat,  the 
companion  of  the  chair-mender,  who  occasionally 
rubbed  her  head  like  a  viper  along  her  master's 
leg. 

They  were  on  their  way,  people,  animals,  fur- 
niture, to  the  dwelling  where  so  many  similar 
wrecks  had  preceded  them.  It  took  three-quar- 
ters of  an  hour  to  reach  there  on  foot  and  more 
than  an  hour  at  the  donkey's  gait.  But  what 


OF  THE   POOR  205 

mattered  that  to  Le  Bolloche?  He  was  in  no 
hurry  to  get  to  the  end  of  that  journey.  He  did 
not  cry,  as  formerly,  through  the  streets:  "Chairs 
to  mend;  chairs  to  mend!"  He  was  no  longer 
anything  in  the  world,  not  even  a  weaver  of  rushes, 
and  he  felt  it  cruelly.  When  he  raised  his  eyes 
to  the  houses  of  his  former  clients,  on  one  side  or 
the  other,  his  heartrending  smile  answered  the 
astonishment  which  his  turnout  provoked.  Small 
boys  standing  barefoot  on  thresholds  laughed;  tall 
girls  appeared  at  the  windows  and  with  a  shrug 
of  the  shoulders,  still  holding  in  their  arms  the 
straw  mattresses  which  they  were  beating,  leaned 
out  to  catch  a  glimpse  at  what  was  passing  below. 
This  move  excited  their  mirth.  They  did  not 
suspect  the  sorrow  of  these  two  travellers.  Still 
the  woman,  more  gentle  by  nature,  had  become 
a  little  resigned,  but  the  man  felt  a  violent  grief 
in  which  much  wounded  pride  was  mingled.  The 
idea  of  shutting  himself  up,  a  man  who  had  com- 
manded a  section,  under  the  authority  of  a  woman, 
especially  of  a  nun,  irritated  him  to  the  highest 
degree.  He  had  a  spite  in  advance  against  the  one 
who  was  going  to  receive  him.  And  as  he  neared 
the  end  of  his  journey  his  face  became  more  stern, 
his  eyebrows  knit  together,  he  had  his  grand  air 
of  the  days  of  a  review.  Le  Bolloche  meant  to 
impose  it  on  them  from  the  first.  They  should 
not  take  him  for  a  drone  at  the  end  of  his  resources, 
tired  of  roaming  about  and  begging  shelter;  cer- 
tainly not,  nor  for  a  man  without  character,  who 
can  be  ordered  about  like  a  child.  The  first  nun 
to  see  him  would  not  make  a  mistake! 


206      THE   LITTLE   SISTERS 

Finally  the  road  began  to  ascend.  A  white 
mill  rose  on  the  right,  and  the  mill  adjoined  the 
hospital ;  with  a  strip  of  meadow  separating  them, 
they  occupied  the  entire  top  of  the  hill.  The  travel- 
lers stopped  for  a  moment.  In  front,  at  the  end 
of  the  road,  two  very  high  buildings  projected  at 
an  open  angle,  hiding  the  rest  of  the  house,  which 
revealed  thus  only  its  two  outstretched  arms. 
An  encircling  wall  turned  and  followed  the  slope 
on  the  other  side.  Above  it  tops  of  trees,  with 
new  leaves,  rose  here  and  there.  All  the  win- 
dows were  open.  Le  Bolloche  urged  the  donkey 
to  the  foot  of  a  flight  of  steps  and  waited. 

A  hospital  is  like  a  beehive:  one  never  waits 
long  without  seeing  a  bee  come  out.  A  sister's 
cap  appeared  and  beneath  it  a  very  tiny,  very 
young,  and  very  dark  sister. 

"What  do  you  want?"  she  asked. 

"To  see  the  one  in  command  here."  replied  Le 
Bolloche  austerely. 

"Is  it  to  sell  anything  to  her?  The  good 
mother  is  very  busy,  you  see;  and  if  it  is  for 
that- 

"Have  I  the  air  of  a  travelling  merchant?" 
replied  Le  Bolloche.  "You  do  not  understand 
at  all,  Mademoiselle."  He  insisted  on  the  word, 
knowing  very  well  that  he  emancipated  himself 
from  a  respectful  tradition.  "I  wish  to  speak 
with  her,  to  make  a  business  proposition  to  her. 
and  a  good  one,  too." 

The  sister  glanced  at  the  travellers,  the  box, 
the  three  pots  of  sweet  basil. 

"I  understand,"  she  said,  "my  worthy  man; 


OFTHEPOOR  207 

I  will  go  in  and  fetch  her."  And  she  turned 
away  so  swiftly  that  he  could  not  tell  whether  she 
had  disappeared  behind  the  pillar  of  the  right  or 
that  to  the  left. 

"Worthy  man,  indeed!"  he  grumbled;  "there's 
a  silly  jade  for  you,  to  call  me  'worthy  man'!" 

He  slipped  down  the  length  of  the  step  and 
stood  erect,  the  reins  of  cord  wrapped  around  his 
arm,  the  saucy  zouave  cap  perched  on  the  back 
of  his  head,  a  little  to  one  side. 

A  shadow  flitted  by  the  arched  window  of  the 
cloister  and  a  second  sister  appeared  on  the 
threshold  of  the  door;  she  was  of  average  height, 
but  so  frail  that  she  appeared  small.  Her  hands, 
which  she  held  clasped  on  her  black  gown,  were 
white  and  transparent.  It  would  have  been  dif- 
ficult to  have  told  her  age.  All  the  features  of 
her  delicate  face  were  made  still  thinner  by  fa- 
tigue and  the  consuming  struggle  of  an  ardent 
soul.  There  was  not,  however,  a  wrinkle  to  be  seen. 
There  was  something  infantine  in  her  glance,  and 
at  the  same  time  she  had  the  compassionate  smile 
of  a  person  who  has  lived.  Her  cap  concealed  the 
colour  of  her  hair.  She  was  the  "good  mother," 
a  great  lady,  who  governed  two  hundred  poor  peo- 
ple and  sixty  nuns  with  a  move  of  her  fingers. 

She  looked  at  the  equipage  standing  in  front 
of  her  for  a  moment.  The  corners  of  her  thin  lips 
curled  up  involuntarily,  by  a  surprise  of  her  na- 
ture, which  was  gay  and  sprightly  in  the  world. 
But  her  will  immediately  repressed  this  unruly 
movement,  and  she  said  with  her  voice,  which 
had  neither  tone  nor  song,  but  was  very  soft 
nevertheless : 


208      THE   LITTLE   SISTERS 

"You  have  come  to  enter  with  us?" 

Le  Bolloche,  somewhat  disconcerted,  answered : 
"Yes,  Madame,  if  you  have  room." 

"We  will  make  room,  my  friend,  and  we  will 
serve  you  to  the  best  of  our  ability." 

"Moreover,  I  do  not  ask  for  charity;  I  bring 
my  household  things." 

"And  even  your  cat!" 

"All  that  is  yours,"  he  continued,  including  in 
a  sweeping  motion  the  donkey,  wagon,  and  load. 
"I  place  only  two  conditions." 

"What  are  they?" 

"Just  now,  one  of  your  inferiors ' 

"You  mean  to  say  one  of  our  sisters?" 

"Yes;  I  am  an  old  soldier,  you  see;  all  that  is 
not  superior  is  inferior.  Well,  then,  your  sister 
called  me  'worthy  man.'  I  do  not  like  that." 

"You  must  pardon  us  if  we  do  it  again,"  said 
the  sister,  upon  whose  face  the  same  light  smile 
reappeared;  "it  is  a  sort  of  habit  with  us." 

"And  then  I  would  like  to  know  whether  one 
has  the  liberty  of  his  belief  here?  I  prefer  to  tell 
you  at  once,  I  do  not  believe  much,  I  am  not  de- 
vout. I  am  not  a  hypocrite.  And  if  one  has 
not  the  liberty  of  his  opinions  here,  I  do  not  stay!" 

Le  Bolloche  said  this  with  his  grandest  air. 
He  saw  with  astonishment  that  the  sister  smiled 
openly,  with  a  smile  so  beaming,  so  deep,  so  fresh 
that  he  lost  countenance. 

"Well!"  he  exclaimed,  "since  it  is  my  opin- 
ion- 

"Fear  nothing,"  she  replied;  "we  have  several 
v/orthy  men  here  who  think  as  you  do." 

Then  she  came  down  the  steps  and  gave  her 


OF  THE   POOR  209 

hand  to  help  Mere  Le  Bolloche,  who  was  quite 
frightened  by  the  boldness  of  her  husband,  get 
down  from  the  wagon. 

He  had  already  begun  to  unharness  the  donkey. 

"Lead  him  to  the  stable/'  said  the  sister,  "yon- 
der; yes,  that  is  it — turn  to  the  left — straight 
ahead  before  you  now." 

On  all  sides  of  Le  Bolloche  numerous  service 
buildings,  stable,  pig-pen,  hen-house,  cow-shed, 
were  extended,  and  upon  the  slope  of  the  hill  on 
the  side  opposite  the  entrance  lay  a  large  field  of 
rye,  with  borders  of  dwarf  apple-trees. 

A  whole  population  of  slow,  bent,  broken,  stum- 
bling old  men  were  walking  about  in  the  paths. 
There  were  as  many  crutches  as  sound  legs.  The 
sullen  wind  which,  above,  was  chasing  the  grey- 
ish-brown clouds  would  have  been  able,  without 
difficulty,  to  topple  these  poor  human  ruins  to 
the  ground.  Looking  at  them,  Le  Bolloche  began 
pitying  his  own  fate.  He  unharnessed  the  don- 
key and  fastened  it  to  a  manger  which  he  filled 
with  hay. 

"You,  at  least,"  said  he,  "will  not  suffer." 

Afterward  he  set  himself  to  the  task  of  unload- 
ing the  wagon,  and,  beginning  with  the  basket, 
he  lifted  up  the  rods  which  held  captive  the  cock 
and  hen.  As  soon  as  he  was  out  the  cock  flapped 
his  wings  and  began  crowing.  The  hen  scratched 
her  beak  among  the  tufts  of  grass  in  the  court  and 
pecked  without  the  least  perturbation.  Old  Le 
Bolloche,  who  was  inclined  at  this  moment  to 
make  sad  comparisons,  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Animals,"  he  murmured,  "do  not  see  any  dif- 


210      THE   LITTLE   SISTERS 

ference;  here  or  there,  it  is  all  the  same  to  them!" 
And  with  the  back  of  his  sleeve  he  wiped  away  a 
tear  which  no  one,  happily,  had  seen  falling. 

III. 

These  pensioners  of  Jeanne  Jugan  were  indeed 
ruins,  ruins  of  all  kinds  and  all  origins.  Some 
had  been  poor  all  their  life,  others  had  fallen 
from  a  small  competency  or  even  from  a  fortune. 
The  causes  which  had  brought  them  there,  in  this 
refuge  where  charity  blinded  its  eyes  to  receive 
them,  varied  little;  it  was  misfortune  for  some, 
misconduct  for  many.  Certain  ones  had  worn 
out  twenty  professions,  run  all  over  Europe  and 
America,  taken  photographs  for  Paris  shopkeep- 
ers, gathered  snails  for  restaurants,  picked  moss 
for  florists  in  the  woods  of  Viroflay,  and  lassoed 
wild  animals  on  the  prairies  of  La  Plata;  they 
had  tried  their  hand  at  everything,  had  taken 
root  nowhere,  and,  driven  by  hunger,  had  gone 
to  the  Little  Sisters  with  the  secret  hope  of  leav- 
ing there  again. 

They  all  lived  a  common  life,  but  not  in  the  same 
way.  Discoveries  of  like  tastes  and  origin,  sim- 
ilarities of  trade  or  even  of  suffering,  grouped  them 
into  little  companies  for  walk  or  work.  For  they 
worked  at  the  hospital;  oh!  as  a  play,  children's 
work,  which,  deserted  at  their  whim,  did  not  last 
long  and  brought  in  nothing.  A  few  weavers 
plied  the  loom  for  an  hour  or  two  in  a  low  room; 
half  a  dozen  tailors  sewed  the  rents  in  coats  that- 
had  been  already  mended;  the  farmers  took  care 


OF  THE   POOR  211 

of  the  horse  and  cows,  cut  grass,  or  braided 
baskets;  the  hay-making  in  fine  weather  brought 
the  strongest  together  for  a  fortnight  in  the  small 
meadow;  from  one  end  of  the  year  to  the  other, 
those  able  to  hold  a  spade  dug  up  a  bit  of  ground 
or  cut  the  weeds  in  a  small  garden  which  was 
assigned  to  them  as  their  own  and  of  which  they 
parcelled  out  the  cultivation  as  they  pleased,  one 
into  a  kitchen  garden,  another  into  a  tiny  orchard, 
another  into  a  flower-plot.  There  were  also  the 
incorrigible  drones  or  the  feeble  who  did  nothing. 
Charity  watched  over  them  and  for  them,  la- 
boured and  smiled;  she  took  no  rest  that  they 
might  enjoy  complete  repose.  She  could  have 
been  called  rich,  she  found  so  many  ways  to  be 
amiable  and  helpful.  Her  patience  had  no  limit. 
She  practised  the  thankless  art  of  being  motherly 
to  the  old. 

Le  Bolloche  quickly  had  his  group  of  followers. 
They  were  all  the  old  soldiers,  scattered  until 
then  and  floating  about  in  the  population  of  the 
hospital.  The  eloquence  of  the  old  non-commis- 
sioned officer,  his  imposing  bearing,  the  magic 
brightness  of  the  corporal's  and  sergeant's  chev- 
rons which  they  imagined  they  saw  in  rays  of 
gold  on  his  pensioner's  sleeve,  attracted  them. 
They  listened  to  him  willingly.  In  their  midst 
Le  Bolloche  had  again  the  illusion  of  the  barracks 
and  of  command.  A  most  mixed  battalion  with- 
out doubt,  where  all  branches  of  the  service  were 
mingled  and  of  which  several  officers  came  from 
disciplinary  companies.  But  what  mattered  it? 
They  belonged  to  the  profession.  They  put  their 


212      THE   LITTLE   SISTERS 

campaigns  together.  Each  told  his  story,  often  the 
same  one,  but  never  in  the  same  way.  They  had 
a  way  of  their  own  of  talking  of  war.  Each  had 
seen  but  a  small  corner  of  the  field  of  battle. 
Many  of  them  had  remained  under  arms  half  a 
day  exposed  to  the  rain  of  bursting  shells.  Their 
accounts  gave  a  poor  and  mutilated  idea  of  mil- 
itary things.  They  delighted  in  them,  however, 
and  continually  returned  to  them  apropos  of  some 
detail  which  they  did  not  remember  to  have  told. 
On  days  of  going  out  those  who  returned  from 
town  with  a  paper  read  marvellous  news  to  the 
others.  They  grew  heated  over  the  prodigious 
armaments  of  Russia  or  Germany,  the  guns  ca- 
pable of  piercing  trunks  of  oak-trees,  fifty  inches 
through,  the  smokeless  powder,  the  submarine 
boats,  the  trials  of  torpedoes.  The  most  ultra- 
patriotic  gave  the  tone,  the  old  renewed  their 
youth,  a  ferment  of  ancient,  glorious  fevers  ran 
through  their  veins.  Then,  what  defiances  against 
all  hostile  peoples,  what  oaths  of  love  for  their 
France,  what  predictions  of  victory!  They  all 
saw  the  victorious  army  crossing  the  frontier  and 
falling  upon  the  villages  of  the  Rhine.  They 
imagined  themselves  a  part  of  it,  they  pillaged, 
they  killed,  they  became  intoxicated  and  fell 
asleep  in  the  little  white  sheets  of  the  conquered. 
At  such  times  Le  Bolloche  was  superb.  He  com- 
manded them  all,  with  his  voice  still  resonant 
with  the  alcohol  of  the  canteen.  Steps  were  ha- 
stened, canes  uplifted,  rheumatic  arms  stretched 
out  in  front.  Poor  old  men  !  Their  French 
troopers'  hearts  had  not  grown  old. 


OF  THE   POOR  213 

They  talked  of  these  exciting  questions  usually 
in  the  rye-field,  where  the  ears  were  beginning  to 
appear.  When  a  sister  passed  on  the  terrace  of 
the  hospital  above,  she  stopped  for  a  moment, 
astonished  at  such  great  animation.  She  fol- 
lowed these  warriors  with  a  tranquil  eye,  always 
counting  them,  fearful  that  the  count  was  not 
exact  "  There  are  our  little  old  men,  who  are 
talking  of  war,"  she  thought.  The  kind  of  pleas- 
ure which  they  took  in  it  was  completely  foreign 
to  her,  but  she  was  not  sorry  to  see  them  so  mar- 
tial. It  gave  her  the  feeling  which  boys  playing 
noisily  with  leaden  soldiers  give  to  their  mothers. 
Then,  satisfied  with  her  inspection,  the  white  cap 
went  away.  The  little  old  men  had  not  seen 
her. 

The  rule  was  not  severe.  Le  Bolloche  ac- 
knowledged even  that  it  did  not  displease  him. 
He  had  the  illusion  of  activity  and  the  reality  of 
repose.  His  comrades  gave  full  satisfaction  to 
his  taste  for  praise.  He  had  a  good  appetite,  suf- 
fered little  from  his  leg,  breathed  the  air  of  the 
hills  for  eight  hours  a  day,  to  which  the  near 
course  of  a  great  river,  stretched  and  ramified  to 
infinity  in  the  green  country,  like  the  blue  veins 
of  a  thistle-leaf,  gave  life.  But  for  all  that  he 
pined  visibly  away;  the  hollow  wrinkles  of  his 
cheeks  sunk  deeper  still.  He  had  periods  of 
dumbness  and  moroseness,  which  the  sisters  did 
not  mistake.  Sister  Dorothee  tried  a  supple- 
mentary ration  of  tobacco,  usually  a  most  effica- 
cious remedy.  Le  Bolloche  accepted  it,  thanked 
her,  and  smoked  it;  but  he  was  not  cheered  up. 


214      THE   LITTLE   SISTERS 

"Perhaps  he  would  like  to  see  his  wife  oftener?" 
the  sister  thought,  and,  in  place  of  twice  a  week, 
Le  Bolloche  was  allowed  to  meet  daily,  in  a  cor- 
ridor of  the  hospital,  his  wife,  who  was  quite  at 
home  and  very  gentle  and  retiring  there  as  else- 
where. They  talked  a  little;  but  they  had  not 
much  to  say  to  each  other,  never  having  had  the 
same  turn  of  mind  and  having  no  longer  the  same 
life.  The  good  man  did  not  return  from  these 
visits  of  favour  any  more  gay. 

By  dint  of  thinking  about  it,  Sister  Dorothe"e 
had  an  inspiration. 

Observing  him  standing  motionless  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  garden,  his  foot  on  his  spade,  looking 
fixedly  toward  the  lower  part  of  the  town,  the 
veiled  horizons  where  houses,  streets,  and  gardens 
have  no  longer  a  distinct  shape  and  become  but 
shadows  in  the  softened  scale  of  distances,  she 
guessed  his  thought : 

"It  is  your  daughter  that  you  miss?"  she  said. 

Le  Bolloche,  who  had  not  seen  the  sister,  trem- 
bled at  this  word.  His  old  face  became  hard,  his 
eyes  kindled  with  a  sombre  fire;  he  did  not  like 
to  have  any  one  know  his  affairs,  and  the  dis- 
covery of  a  grief,  which  he  was  too  proud  to 
confide  to  any  one,  wounded  him  as  an  indiscre- 
tion. 


daughter"  caused  him  was  the  strongest.  He 
could  not  master  it,  it  carried  him  away  entirely, 
it  changed  him.  His  features  relaxed  and,  hum- 
bly, softly,  in  a  tone  through  which  the  confes- 
sion of  his  long  suffering  pierced,  he  replied : 


OFTHEPOOR  215 

"It  is  true!" 

"Why  did  you  not  say  so  sooner?"  continued 
the  sister.  "You  have  not  seen  her  during  the 
five  weeks  that  you  have  been  here?" 

"No." 

"Would  you  like  me  to  write  to  her  to  come?" 

"Oh!  yes!" 

"You  love  this  De'sire'e  so  much?" 

He  had  not  the  strength  to  reply.  His  hands 
trembled  on  the  handle  of  his  shovel,  and  his 
eyes,  which  he  turned  away,  saw  doubtless  in  imag- 
ination standing  in  the  grass  of  the  meadow  the 
child  who  came  to  him. 

That  evening  when  Sister  Dorothe"e  asked  per- 
mission of  the  superior  to  write,  she  added: 

"This  little  old  man  is  incredible;  you  would 
say  that  he  was  the  mother!" 

And  covering  a  sheet  of  paper  with  an  irregular 
and  hurried  handwriting,  she  posted  it  to  the 
address  of  Desire'e. 

IV. 

If  the  young  girl  had  not  yet  visited  her 
parents,  it  had  not  been  for  want  of  thinking 
of  it.  But  her  grandmother  had  fallen  quite 
seriously  ill,  and  she  was,  like  many  persons  when 
they  are  ill,  extremely  exacting.  Solitude  inspired 
her  with  horror.  It  had  been  necessary  to  nurse 
her,  watch  her,  and  never  leave  her.  She  barely 
gave  De'sire'e  time  to  go  to  the  edge  of  the  village 
for  supplies.  How  would  she  have  permitted  a  visit 
to  the  hospital,  which,  considering  the  long  dis- 


216      THE   LITTLE   SISTERS 

tance,  would  have  taken  a  whole  morning?  D6- 
sire"e  had  to  wait  and  the  weeks  had  slipped  by. 

Sister  DorotheVs  letter  came  when  the  invalid 
was  in  full  convalescence,  and  these  two  causes 
combined,  the  entreaties  on  one  side,  the  reviving 
health  on  the  other,  decided  the  grandmother. 

"Go,  my  child,"  she  said.  "Be  as  quick  as 
possible.  You  will  bring  me  news  of  Honore." 

She  hardly  thought  of  her  daughter-in-law, 
any  more  in  the  present  than  she  had  in  the 
past.  Honore  alone  filled  her  thoughts. 

Desiree  started  at  once.  She  was  happy  in  the 
thought  of  seeing  her  parents  again,  happy  also 
to  be  free  and  in  the  beauty  of  the  day.  The 
sky  was  covered  with  fleecy  grey  clouds  through 
which  all  the  rays  pierced,  one  of  those  skies  of 
the  end  of  May,  which  accustom  the  flowers  to  the 
intense  sun  of  summer.  Starflowers  dotted  the 
slopes  of  the  suburbs.  The  sparrows,  perched  on 
the  roofs  and  the  old  walls  on  both  sides  of  the 
road,  flew  away  in  flocks,  when  Desired  passed, 
with  a  little  cry  of  appeal,  so  gay  and  so  quick 
that  it  seemed  to  Desire"e  that  her  heart  was  fly- 
ing away  too.  It  did  not  fly  very  far,  however, 
no  more  than  they.  Hers  was  not  a  dreamy 
nature,  but  rather  an  active  and  a  courageous 
one.  She  thought  about  the  orders  that  must  be 
delivered  during  the  week,  of  some  washing  that 
she  would  soon  have,  of  a  sowing  of  convolvulus 
which  she  had  made  along  the  house  and  which 
was  beginning  to  sprout,  but  most  of  all  of  a  way 
to  braid  rattan  and  willow  now  that  her  child- 
hood's trade  was  dying  out.  She  had  put  on  her 


OF   THE   POOR  217 

blue  dress,  a  white  collar  fastened  by  a  cornelian 
brooch  and  a  hat — for  so  long  a  journey — com- 
posed of  a  single  blue  ribbon  crumpled  upon  some 
black  tulle.  It  was  the  finest  thing  she  had.  Any 
one  else  would  have  thought  her  toilet  very  poor. 
But  about  that  she  cared  little;  her  only  care,  for 
the  moment,  was  that  of  pleasing  those  whom  she 
was  going  to  see.  She  was  sure  of  succeeding 
there.  And  thus  dressed,  thinking  of  the  ever- 
complicated  problem  of  her  life  of  work,  trying 
to  solve  it,  she  walked  without  haste,  along  the 
road,  where  silly  breezes,  blowing  through  the 
hedges,  amused  themselves  by  whirling  up  pinches 
of  dust. 

Before  entering  the  hospital  Desire"e,  a  little 
tired,  a  little  red,  stopped  in  front  of  the  mill 
to  get  her  breath  and  to  knot  up  her  hair,  whose 
too  heavy  mass,  loosened  by  her  walk,  fell  upon 
her  neck.  The  road  stopped  a  few  paces  from 
there.  A  knoll  on  the  grass,  trampled  by  the  feet 
of  mules,  bore  the  white  mill.  Its  four  great 
wings  turned  with  a  powerful  movement,  with  a 
soft  creaking  of  bending  wood,  such  as  comes  from 
the  masts  of  ships,  or  from  the  yokes  of  oxen  in 
ploughing.  The  wind  swept  up  from  the  river. 
Desiree,  with  her  head  bare,  her  figure  bent  back, 
her  arms  upstretched  twisting  her  golden  hair, 
was  charming. 

That  is  precisely  what  a  young  miller  was  think- 
ing who,  without  her  seeing  him,  was  leaning  on 
his  elbows  out  of  the  garret  window  of  the  mill. 

Millers  have,  in  all  ages,  been  considered  phi- 
losophers and  contemplative  persons.  I  speak  of 


218      THE    LITTLE   SISTERS 

those  who  live  on  heights.  Their  trade  makes 
them  so.  They  combine  the  nature  of  the  hermit 
and  the  lighthouse-keeper.  One  part  of  their  life 
is  spent  in  waiting,  the  other  in  letting  the  wind 
do  their  work.  They  see  vast  horizons  and  also  the 
little  things  beneath  them.  When  their  nature 
is  not  averse  to  it,  millers  have  a  fine  oppor- 
tunity for  dreaming. 

This  one  was  not  inconsistent  with  tradition. 
His  wide  felt  hat,  white  with  flour,  covered  a  rather 
fine  head;  he  was  a  young  man,  a  little  indolent 
but  intelligent,  with  brown  eyes,  colourless  cheeks, 
and  a  mouth  slightly  raised  at  the  corners,  giving 
to  his  face  a  good-natured  teasing  air,  a  distinctive 
sign  of  the  class.  He  leaned  a  little  farther  out 
of  the  window  and  said: 

"You  don't  appear  to  be  hurried,  Mademoi- 
selle?" 

Such  are  the  commonplace  phrases  with  which, 
among  the  people,  persons  who  are  not  acquainted 
try  each  other  and  show  their  willingness  to  en- 
gage in  a  bit  of  conversation.  Surprised,  she 
looked  up  at  him,  and  not  finding  his  look  too 
bold,  answered: 

"Nor  you,  either,  from  what  I  see." 

"What  is  there  to  do?"  he  resumed;  "when  the 
mill  is  going,  millers  have  nothing  better  to  do 
than  to  look  at  the  passing  girls.  It  is  a  fine  trade ; 
even  when  work  goes  best,  one  has  some  free- 
dom." 

"All  trades  are  not  the  same,"  said  De"siree, 
sighing. 

She  knotted  the  faded  strings  of  her  hat  and 


OFTHEPOOR  219 

turned  to  go.  But  evidently  she  pleased  him,  for 
he  detained  her,  saying: 

"What  do  you  do,  then?" 

"I  am  a  chair-mender,"  she  answered.  "The 
trade  was  good  once  and  we  earned  our  living. 
Then  it  died  away.  My  father  was  obliged  to 
go  to  the  hospital.  He  was  a  good  workman, 
however,  I  assure  you;  never  behindhand  and  not 
a  spendthrift.  Everybody  liked  him." 

"He  is  at  Jeanne  Jugan?" 

"Yes,  and  so  is  my  mother;  I  am  going  to  see 
them." 

"  Then  you  are  like  an  orphan  at  home,  Madem- 
oiselle Rose?" 

"No,  not  Rose,"  she  said,  laughing;  "De"sire*e." 

They  looked  at  each  other  a  moment,  both 
laughing  at  the  droll  manner  in  which  he  had 
asked  her  name.  She  added : 

"I  am  not  so  alone  as  you  think;  my  grand- 
mother is  with  me." 

"Do  you  live  far  from  here?" 

"  On  the  other  side  of  the  town,  near  the  octroi. 
My  grandmother  is  blind." 

"  Blind ! "  repeated  the  young  man ;  "  that  cannot 
be  very  gay  for  you." 

"It  is  especially  sad  for  her." 

"Then  you  go  out  but  little." 

"Scarcely  at  all." 

"  On  a  Sunday,  don't  you?  A  turn  at  the  fair, 
or  perhaps  in  the  assemblies?" 

"Never!"  exclaimed  Desire"e,  as  if  that  suppo- 
sition had  offended  her.  "I  never  go  there." 

She  began  blushing,  becoming  suddenly  con- 


220      THE   LITTLE   SISTERS 

fused  at  the  intimate  turn  which  the  conversa- 
tion was  taking.  He,  on  the  contrary,  showed 
his  white  teeth.  He  looked  perfectly  satisfied. 

"I  believe  you,  Mademoiselle  Desiree;  one  can 
see  that  without  your  saying  so.  Au  revoir  then ! " 

"Good  evening,  Monsieur." 

Scarcely  had  she  turned  the  corner  of  the 
hedge  before  she  felt  vexed  with  herself.  To  stop 
thus  to  talk  on  the  road!  How  came  she  to  do 
such  a  thing?  And  how  many  things  she  had 
talked  about  in  a  short  time!  About  her  father, 
her  mother,  her  grandmother,  the  life  they  led  at 
home.  He  had  made  her  tell  all  that  he  wished, 
and  he  prudently  knew  how  to  keep  silent.  How 
cunning  he  was,  that  fellow,  in  wheedling  girls! 
Before  entering  the  court,  as  she  was  hidden  by 
the  wall,  she  turned  her  head  quickly  and  cast  a 
glance  in  the  direction  of  the  mill.  The  garret 
window  was  empty,  all  black  on  the  white  wall. 
"Happily,"  Desiree  thought,  "he  had  an  honest 
look  and  no  one  saw  me." 

She  went  up  the  flight  of  steps  and  asked  for 
her  father. 

Le  Bolloche  was  outside  in  the  centre  of  an 
open  and  sandy  place  which  lay  at  the  foot  of 
the  field  of  rye.  They  had  chosen  him  for  um- 
pire of  a  doubtful  play  at  bowls,  and,  bent  over, 
he  was  measuring  the  disputed  distance  with  his 
cane.  Half  a  score  of  players,  his  comrades, 
stooping  in  a  circle,  were  absorbed  by  the  interest 
of  this  verification.  They  all  rose  up  together, 
and  Le  Bolloche  saw  Desiree,  who  was  walking 
along  the  field,  her  blue  frock  grazing  the  dwarf 


OF   THE   POOR  221 

apple-trees  and  the  border  of  strawberry-plants 
blooming  freely  beneath. 

"My  daughter!"  he  exclaimed. 

It  was  an  event,  the  arrival  of  those  twenty  years 
in  an  asylum  of  old  men,  that  radiant  health  in  the 
midst  of  all  those  human  infirmities.  The  comrades 
of  Le  Bolloche,  ball  in  hand,  looked  at  the  young 
girl  coming.  Almost  all  without  family,  having 
roved  everywhere,  without  taking  root  anywhere, 
isolated  besides  by  their  age  and  already  shut  up  in 
that  semi-death  of  the  refuge,  which  charity  can 
never  completely  disguise,  they  took  in,  like  a  per- 
fume, this  apparition  which  was  advancing.  All 
were  gladdened  by  it.  To  each  one  she  recalled 
some  pleasant  memory. 

"She  looks  like  a  pretty  canteen  girl  I  used  to 
know,"  said  one. 

"If  she  wore  her  hair  on  her  forehead,  would 
not  one  swear  that  she  was  an  actress  of  the  cafe  of 
the  Dajo  promenade?"  said  another,  an  old  sailor, 
whose  memory  flowed  very  far  back  at  the  sight 
of  Desire'e.  A  third  murmured  a  name,  which 
no  one  heard.  His  head,  twitching  with  spas- 
modic jerks,  dropped  on  his  chest  and  two  tears 
fell  upon  the  woollen  rags  with  which  his  sore 
feet  were  wrapped,  and  no  one  knew  what  distant 
image  of  a  woman  or  of  a  young  girl,  the  emotion 
of  this  forsaken  one  was  saluting  through  the 
past  years. 

They  watched  Le  Bolloche  go  to  meet  Desire'e, 
pass  his  arm  in  hers  and  disappear  in  the  path 
which  cut  the  fields  half-way.  Roused  from  their 
rapture,  they  looked  at  each  other  then  with  a 


222      THE   LITTLE   SISTERS 

hard  air.  They  were  jealous  of  the  former  ser- 
geant. No  one  came  thus  for  them.  The  game 
of  bowls  was  abandoned.  Le  Bolloche  and  his 
daughter  both  walked  at  first  in  the  path.  He 
was  radiant,  his  happiness  doubled  by  the  pride 
of  walking  by  her  side.  He  enjoyed  the  aston- 
ishment which  she  aroused.  He  looked  at  her  as 
if  to  accustom  his  eyes  to  each  of  the  features  of 
his  child. 

"Ah,  little  one!"  he  cried.  "Little  one,  how 
happy  I  am!  I  cannot  live  without  seeing  you!" 
He  could  not  utter  a  word  more. 

Then  Mere  Le  Bolloche  came  to  find  them. 
They  walked  up  toward  the  hospital  of  which 
it  was  necessary  to  make  the  tour  to  the  large 
orchard  surrounded  by  walls  and  only  opened 
by  favour  to  visiting  relatives.  And  then  the  talk 
began. 

De*sire*e  had  to  place  herself  between  the  two 
old  people,  talking  to  her  at  the  same  time,  each 
of  what  interested  them.  The  most  unimpor- 
tant things  came  to  life  again  in  their  memory 
with  a  marvellous  intensity  of  tenderness  and  of 
regret.  It  is  incredible  how  many  questions  a 
meadow,  a  house,  and  a  poor  grandmother  whom 
one  has  left  can  furnish.  Desire*e  replied  as  best 
she  could;  their  joy  made  her  expansive  too.  She 
had  no  time  to  think  of  herself.  And  yet,  every 
time  that  she  came  to  the  turn  of  a  certain  path, 
the  shadow  of  the  wings  of  the  mill  leaping  the 
walls  ran  before  her,  enveloped  her,  seemed  to 
wish  to  carry  her  away  in  passing.  Desiree  felt 
a  little  thrill;  she  imagined  very  wrongfully,  per- 


OF  THE   POOR  223 

haps,  and  without  having  the  right  to  think  of  it 
so,  that  these  great  shadowy  arms  beckoned  to 
her  and  that  there  were  two  brown  eyes  down 
there  which  were  following  her  through  an  un- 
known crevice  of  the  mill. 


V. 

When  Desire*e  returned  home,  she  found  the 
old  grandmother  less  anxious  than  she  had  ex- 
pected. Happy  to  tell  her: 

"Little  one,  there  came  a  fine  order  during 
your  absence;  twelve  chairs  to  be  new-bottomed 
in  black  and  white!  One  would  say  that  business 
is  going  to  look  up  again." 

De'sire'e  had  no  illusions  on  this  subject,  but  the 
work  was  none  the  less  welcome.  The  very  next 
day,  wholly  rested  and  refreshed  by  the  afternoon 
of  the  day  before,  she  set  herself  to  work.  She  had 
to  carry  out  of  the  shed  the  sheaves  of  sorted  rye, 
which  a  too  long  stay  in  the  shade  had  rendered 
damp,  to  loosen  them  and  spread  them  out  in 
regular  rows  on  a  mowed  corner  of  the  meadow. 
And  while  the  sun  and  air  were  drying  them  she 
busied  herself  removing  the  worn  seats  from  the 
chairs,  with  strengthening  their  bars  and  stain- 
ing some  handfuls  of  stalks,  which  would  make 
regular  spots  upon  the  new  seats,  like  ermine 
tails  upon  white  fur.  All  that  occupied  two  days. 

During  this  time  she  thought,  indeed  several 
times,  of  the  meeting  which  she  had  had  with  the 
miller,  without  displeasure,  but  without  emotion, 
either;  just  as  we  think  of  things  which  will  have 


224      THE   LITTLE   SISTERS 

no  continuation.  In  going  to  buy  her  supplies 
in  the  quarter  of  the  octroi,  she  looked  for  the 
wings  of  the  mill  on  the  horizon,  and  she  saw  them 
turning,  very  tiny,  like  a  child's  toy. 

The  third  day,  in  the  evening,  seeing  that  the 
straw  was  dry  and  that  it  had  regained  its  beau- 
tiful pale-gold  tint,  she  thought  that  it  was  time 
to  gather  it  together  again.  In  slender  sheaves 
and  carefully,  in  order  not  to  crush  the  straight 
stalks  of  rye,  she  picked  it  up  and  carried  it  under 
the  shed.  One  would  have  thought  her  a  harvester. 
She  loved  to  handle  this  supple  and  quivering 
straw,  which  every  step  made  tremble  under  her 
arm;  it  pleased  her  to  run  thus  the  length  of  the 
meadow,  through  the  grass  which  was  still  warm 
from  the  scorching  rays  of  the  sun  it  had  absorbed. 

The  least  thing  which  took  her  out  of  doors 
seemed  a  diversion  to  this  industrious  girl.  At  the 
moment  when  she  was  picking  up  the  last  armfuls 
of  straw,  the  sun  had  long  since  set,  and  twi- 
light was  invading  the  faubourg.  And  just  then, 
in  straightening  up,  Desiree  saw  the  shape  of  a 
man's  head  above  the  wall,  which  was  painted 
like  a  brown  ribbon  along  the  west.  She  was  not 
at  a  loss  for  a  moment;  it  was  he!  A  blush 
mounted  to  her  face.  She  bent  quickly  down, 
seized  the  rest  of  her  straw,  and,  without  turning 
toward  the  gate,  re-entered  the  shed. 

When  she  came  out  the  young  man,  or  the 
form  that  she  had  taken  for  him,  had  vanished. 
What  had  he  come  for?  How  long  a  time  had 
he  been  looking  at  her?  Oh!  this  was  a  serious 
thing!  Why  was  he,  who  had  called  her  the  first 


OFTHEPOOR  225 

day  from  the  window  of  his  mill,  afraid  of  her 
now?  For  he  had  disappeared  as  soon  as  she 
had  looked  at  him.  Disappeared?  Perhaps  he 
had  hidden  himself.  All  these  questions  followed 
in  rapid  succession  in  the  mind  of  Desiree. 

"After  all,"  she  said  to  herself,  "that  boy  can- 
not wish  me  any  harm.  I  would  like  to  know 
what  has  become  of  him,  and  I  will  go  and  see." 

She  went  up  the  meadow  in  the  tall  grass,  walked 
along  the  wall,  and  bravely,  at  the  spot  where  the 
apparition  had  vanished,  placing  her  foot  upon 
a  projecting  stone,  she  raised  herself  up  so  that 
half  her  body  was  above  the  wall.  The  road  fled 
flaky  and  grey.  No  one  was  in  sight  but  a  peas- 
ant, who  was  trotting  down  the  slope  in  his  cov- 
ered cart.  Yet  she  had  not  been  mistaken.  She 
examined  the  top  of  the  wall — the  sprigs  of  moss 
which  covered  it,  and  the  starry  branches  of  a  yel- 
low plant  blossoming  there,  were  crushed  at  that 
spot ;  some  one  had  been  leaning  there.  She  looked 
farther  along,  and,  upon  a  naked  piece  of  slate, 
torn  from  the  wall,  she  recognised  vaguely  by  the 
last  ray  of  daylight  that  some  letters  had  been 
traced.  She  picked  up  the  stone,  turned  it  toward 
the  west  which  a  last  fringe  of  pale  gold  lighted 
up,  and  read:  "Desiree."  Who  else  could  have 
written  that  name  there?  The  dew  of  a  single 
night  would  have  sufficed  to  efface  the  characters 
traced  by  the  point  of  the  knife,  while,  on  the  con- 
trary, upon  the  edge  of  each  stroke,  a  down  of  dust 
raised  by  the  cut  still  remained.  It  was  he  then 
who,  a  little  before,  had  looked  at  her,  when  she 
picked  up  the  sheaves  of  rye,  and,  to  make  her 


226      THE   LITTLE   SISTERS 

understand  what  he  dared  not  say  to  her,  to  show 
her  that  he  thought  of  her,  had  written:  "De"- 
sire*e."  In  short,  this  word  was  a  letter. 

A  love-letter!  What  does  "De*siree"  signify, 
if  not  "I  love  you"? 

He  loved  her  then?  The  young  girl  took  up 
the  piece  of  slate  and  went  into  the  house.  Her 
grandmother  was  waiting. 

"You  have  been  a  long  time,"  she  said;  "the 
angelus  has  rung  in  two  parishes!" 

Desiree  read  for  the  tenth  time,  by  the  light  of 
a  candle,  the  word  written  on  the  stone. 

"Were  you  only  anxious  to  work?"  continued 
the  grandmother.  "  Come,  eat  a  little. — Why  don't 
you  answer?  Are  you  tired?  " 

But  she  only  answered  with  some  careless  words, 
and  the  grandmother,  at  the  altered  sound  of  her 
granddaughter's  voice,  confirmed  in  the  thought 
that  the  child  was  jaded  out,  said  coaxingly: 

"You  give  yourself  too  much  trouble,  my  poor 
child,  you  stay  too  late  in  the  shed,  and  that 
changes  your  voice." 

Desiree  declared  that  she  was  tired,  exhausted; 
and  the  grandmother  pretended  to  be  sleepy 
earlier  than  usual  on  that  evening. 

Then,  free  to  think,  to  reflect  on  what  had  hap- 
pened, and  on  what  she  experienced  herself,  the 
young  girl  gave  herself  up  to  imagination.  She 
was  then  loved!  That  seemed  to  her  very  cer- 
tain and  very  sweet.  Suspicion  did  not  once 
suggest  to  her  that  he  had  meant  to  joke.  The 
first  uncertain  and  veiled  word  of  love,  the  first 
homage  paid  to  her  charm  as  a  young  girl,  had 


OF  THE   POOR  227 

touched  the  depths  of  this  primitive  nature.  She 
responded  to  it  at  once  by  great  heart-throbs  which 
surprised  her.  And,  little  by  little,  she  realised 
that  these  thoughts  which  rilled  her  now  were 
born  the  very  day  when  she  had  met  this  youth. 
A  deep  and  delicious  agitation  succeeded.  To- 
morrow, the  future,  to  be  married,  to  be  happy! 
She  was  agitated  by  these  magic  and  vague  pic- 
tures, as  tiny  streams,  with  shadowy  banks,  which 
feel  to  their  very  source  the  call  of  the  invisible 
sea.  All  the  details  of  their  brief  interview  re- 
vived. She  recalled  the  questions  which  he  had 
asked,  the  slightest  words  that  he  had  spoken,  so 
as  to  discover  in  them  also  a  new  meaning.  She 
succeeded  but  too  well. 

One  thing  which  Desire"e  had  not  noticed  at 
first  began  to  trouble  her.  She  had  said  that  she 
never  went  to  assemblies. 

"I  believe  you,"  he  had  said,  smiling.  "One 
can  see  that  without  your  saying  so." 

How  then  had  he  guessed  it?  No  doubt,  he 
thought  her  too  poor  and  too  meanly  dressed. 
Girls  who  go  for  a  walk  on  Sunday,  those  who 
can  pretend  to  be  pleasing,  are  differently  dressed. 
He  had  warned  her  of  that. 

"One  can  see  plainly  that  you  have  not  pretty 
ways  and  that  you  do  not  know  how  to  dress 
yourself." 

Yes,  that  was  what  the  phrase  and  the  accom- 
panying smile  meant.  If  he  should  see  her  again 
thus,  when  she  returned  to  see  her  father  and 
passed  near  the  white  mill,  the  passing  fancy 
which  she  had  been  able  to  inspire  would  dis- 


228      THE   LITTLE   SISTERS 

appear.  Desire"e  le  Bolloche  was  not  well  enough 
dressed,  not  attractive  enough,  for  a  man  to  be 
proud  of  walking  with  her  on  his  arm.  Above  all 
this,  for  he  must  be  rich,  he  must  like  pretty 
dresses,  gloves,  and  hats  with  feathers,  and  the 
small  reddish-brown  shoes  which  the  work-girls 
of  the  town  and  even  the  young  dairy-maids  from 
the  country  wore.  While  she!  Ah,  bitter  pov- 
erty !  Ah,  the  happiness  of  those  who  have  a  little 
money  with  which  to  make  themselves  beauti- 
ful! 

Soon  this  sad  reflection  chased  away  all  the 
others.  The  love-song,  barely  begun,  degenerated 
into  a  wail.  De"siree  remained  awake  half  of  the 
night.  Then  slowly  a  plan  matured.  She  hesi- 
tated, rejected  it,  then  entertained  it  again. 

She  was  at  work  the  next  day  before  dawn. 
She  hurried  so  feverishly  that  she  had  never  before 
accomplished  so  much.  In  less  time  than  they 
had  allowed  her,  the  twelve  chairs  were  ready  to 
be  delivered  and  paid  for.  Desiree,  when  she 
brought  home  the  money,  said  to  her  grand- 
mother: 

"Grandmother,  if  you  are  willing,  I  will  go  to 
Jeanne  Jugan  to-morrow." 

"To-morrow,  child — that  is  very  soon.  It  is 
not  ten  days  since  you  saw  them!" 

"Grandmother,  let  me  go;  I  have  finished  the 
work." 

The  grandmother  replied  after  a  moment : 

"I  see  plainly  that  you  are  no  longer  happy 
here,  my  child.  I  am  too  old,  and  you  are  too 
young.  I  knew  that  would  be  the  way  when  your 


OF   THE   POOR  229 

father  went  away.  Go  then,  as  it  will  give  you 
pleasure!" 

Neither  spoke  again  of  this  absence  on  the  next 
day. 

De'sire'e  tried  to  be  gentle  and  kind.  She  helped 
her  grandmother  undress,  and,  on  the  pretext  of 
some  sewing  to  do,  she  waited,  seated  by  the  table. 

When  her  grandmother  was  asleep,  the  young 
girl  dressed,  threw  a  small  cape  over  her  shoul- 
ders, went  cautiously  out  of  the  room  and,  cross- 
ing the  meadow,  was  soon  on  the  road  which 
led  to  the  town.  She  hastened  her  steps,  a  little 
anxious  at  being  alone  at  this  already  late  hour. 
Some  workmen  who  passed  her  looked  boldly  at 
her.  She  felt  afraid  of  the  dark  hollows  of  the 
path.  It  seemed  to  her  at  every  moment  that 
some  one  was  following  her.  And  yet  the  thought 
never  occurred  to  her  to  turn  back.  Her  plan 
gave  her  courage,  and  made  her  smile  at  times. 
She  walked  on.  The  streets  soon  became  better 
lighted.  The  fronts  of  shops  gleamed  on  the 
right  and  the  left.  She  walked  more  peacefully. 
The  people  passing  protected  her  by  their  num- 
ber. At  last  she  stopped  before  the  door  of  a 
large  shop  for  novelties,  which  threw  the  light  of 
its  electric  lamps  at  the  two  corners  of  the  boule- 
vard. 

That  was  the  place.  With  a  little  hesitation, 
she  went  in,  dazzled,  her  eyes  half  closed.  There 
were  but  a  few  customers  in  the  immense  shop. 
A  clerk  came  to  her  and  asked,  with  that  imperti- 
nent air  which  they  readily  assume  when  a  girl 
is  alone,  poor,  and  pretty: 


230      THE   LITTLE   SISTERS 

"What  department  does  Mademoiselle  wish  to 
visit?  Silks,  laces,  trousseaux,  layettes?" 

"What  department?"  Desiree  had  never  been 
in  a  large  shop. 

"Yes,"  he  repeated,  "what  do  you  wish  to 
see?" 

Then  her  secret  escaped  from  her,  and  she  said, 
not  at  all  as  a  reply,  but  speaking  to  herself  in  a 
dreamy  tone  and  as  if  she  saw  some  far-off, 
strangely  beautiful  thing: 

"I  would  like  a  red  parasol!" 

She  had  not  far  to  go.  She  was  shown  at  first 
the  high-priced  parasols,  those  covered  with  silk, 
fringed,  and  mounted  on  carved  handles.  Among 
the  number  there  were  some  red  ones,  but  Desiree 
had  not  much  money.  She  had  to  go  where  the 
lowest-priced  ones  were  kept.  Finally  she  found 
what  she  was  looking  for — a  parasol  of  ordinary 
material,  white  on  the  outside,  lined  with  a  rather 
bright  mauve,  which  could  pass  for  red.  The 
curved  handle  was  white.  Desiree  bought  it.  She 
also  bought  a  pair  of  open-worked  lisle-thread 
gloves  of  simple  design,  having  noticed  that  even 
poor  girls  like  herself  began  to  be  unwilling  to  go 
out  on  Sundays  with  their  hands  bare. 

And  she  began  to  walk  back  toward  the  suburb, 
along  the  streets  less  and  less  lighted  and  peopled 
with  passers-by.  But  she  felt  no  more  fear  now. 
She  carried  the  parasol  rolled  up  in  a  case  of  grey 
paper  under  her  arm.  She  would  not  have  carried 
a  treasure  more  joyously.  It  was  a  treasure  to 
her,  since  it  was  to  make  herself  more  beautiful, 
to  win  better  the  love  of  this  young  miller,  that 


OFTHEPOOR  231 

she  had  spent,  without  telling  her  grandmother,  a 
great  part  of  her  earnings  of  the  whole  week.  How 
fine  she  would  look  to-morrow,  when  at  midday 
she  would  walk  up  to  Jeanne  Jugan,  toward  the 
mill  which  perhaps  would  have  its  window  open 
again!  She  thought  of  that  and  the  return  road 
seemed  short  to  her. 

She  entered  the  house  in  the  darkness.  Her 
grandmother  had  not  awakened.  All  the  crickets 
of  the  meadow  were  singing  around  the  house, 
under  the  blades  of  tall  grass. 

VI. 

The  following  day,  in  the  afternoon,  De'sire'e 
went  to  the  hospital.  In  so  short  a  time,  how 
everything  had  grown !  The  dahlias  of  the  court- 
yard towered  a  foot  above  their  supports,  the 
climbing  roses,  open  altogether  in  the  June  sun- 
shine, overflowed  in  red  and  yellow  waves  the 
mossy  edge  of  the  walls.  On  seeing  that  the  visitor 
was  his  former  mistress,  the  Barbary  cock,  whose 
small  body  enjoyed  the  right  of  free  passage,  came 
out  from  the  shelter  of  a  spindle-tree,  following 
the  young  girl  as  if  she  had  still  some  small  grain 
in  her  apron. 

De'sire'e,  who  was  in  a  good  humour,  turned 
toward  it  and  asked: 

"Little  one,  do  you  know  where  Pere  Le  Bol- 
loche  is?"  He  answered  with  such  a  kirikiki, 
with  so  droll  and  so  decided  a  tone,  that  she  could 
not  help  laughing. 

"Gone  out!"  she  repeated;  "what  are  you  tell- 


232      THE   LITTLE   SISTERS 

ing  me?  At  least  he  is  in  the  orchard,  is  he  not, 
Sister?" 

"Really,  Mademoiselle,  I  do  not  know,"  an- 
swered the  nun,  who  was  passing,  "  I  do  not  know 
indeed;  at  this  season  all  our  little  old  men  are 
stirring." 

The  sun  gave  new  life  in  truth  to  the  pension- 
ers of  Jeanne  Jugan.  With  the  exception  of  cer- 
tain ones,  too  faded  to  freshen  up  again,  who 
would  have  recognised  them?  They  raked  paths, 
weeded  beds,  walked  with  a  gait  twice  as  brisk 
as  that  of  winter.  Several  made  drawings  on  the 
sand  with  their  crutches.  There  was  one  gath- 
ering cherries,  astride  of  a  branch.  All  wore  a 
light  jacket  made  out  of  pieces  of  ticking,  by  hands 
which  suffered  nothing  to  go  to  waste. 

Day  of  respite,  of  illusion  which  spreads  a  great 
sweet  light  over  human  sufferings ! 

Desiree  questioned  the  one  gathering  cherries. 

"Are  you  asking  for  the  sergeant,  my  pretty 
girl?" 

"Yes,  Pere  Le  Bolloche." 

"He  is  mowing  in  the  meadow." 

"What  do  you  say?" 

"I  say  that  he  is  mowing  in  the  meadow.  He 
even  commands  the  squad.  You  see  he  is  full  of 
vigour  and  youth,  that  man!" 

And  the  good  man  gallantly  slipped  down  to 
the  ground  to  direct  the  daughter  of  Honore  le 
Bolloche. 

"You  do  not  know  the  way,"  he  said  seriously, 
"and,  you  see,  we  do  not  work  by  the  hour  here! 
One  has  always  time  to  do  the  work." 


OF  THE   POOR  233 

They  went  up  the  slope,  turned  to  the  right  of 
the  hospital  and,  through  a  bar  which  cut  the  wall 
of  the  enclosure,  penetrated  into  a  long  meadow 
following  the  enclosure.  This  meadow,  shaped 
like  a  crown  and  with  a  growing  hedge  like  a  green 
ring,  enclosed  the  domain  of  the  Sisters  and  bor- 
dered upon  the  miller's  knoll. 

When  she  reached  there,  De"sire*e  saw  a  new 
sight.  Eight  old  men,  armed  with  eight  scythes, 
their  shirt-sleeves  rolled  up,  were  mowing  in  a  line 
in  the  tall  grass.  Le  Bolloche  in  the  middle,  the 
tallest  of  all,  his  wooden  leg  forward,  was  working 
like  a  young  man.  It  was  wonderful  to  see  the 
width  of  the  circular  swath  which  went  down  be- 
fore him  at  each  stroke  of  his  scythe.  He  did 
not  stop  as  the  others  did,  who,  under  pretext  of 
sharpening  their  scythes,  whetted  a  short  quarter 
of  an  hour  on  their  blade.  He  was  on  fatigue  duty 
and  took  the  work  seriously.  Chief  of  the  squad, 
imagine  it!  It  was  a  matter  of  pride  with  him 
to  appear  indefatigable,  to  round  out  his  arm  to 
its  full  extent,  and  especially  not  to  allow  himself 
to  be  distracted;  no,  not  even  when  an  old  sister 
passed  behind  the  line  of  mowers,  a  jug  of  cider 
in  her  hand,  and  said : 

"  Come,  my  friends,  do  not  work  too  much ;  drink 
a  little.  It  is  so  warm!" 

Desire*e  approached.  He  looked  at  her  with 
a  vexed  air. 

"  You  can  see  very  well,"  he  said,  "that  I  have 
some  work  to  do!  Go  wait  for  me  down  yonder. 
Mowing,  my  child,  is  like  furbishing:  it  cannot  be 
interrupted!" 


234      THE   LITTLE   SISTERS 

And,  as  he  said  that,  he  was  superb,  his  head  up- 
right, his  hand  leaning  upon  his  lifted  scythe;  he 
felt  that  he  was  admired  by  his  comrades,  ruins 
more  dilapidated  than  he. 

"Down  yonder!"  he  repeated. 

Desiree  went  to  the  place  which  the  gesture  of 
the  good  man  indicated,  a  little  farther  off  in  the 
meadow,  by  the  side  of  the  hedge.  There  she 
seated  herself  on  the  grass,  not  without  noticing 
that  the  mill  was  close  by  and  that  it  was  not 
turning.  The  thought  of  the  miller  had  scarcely 
left  her;  it  had  occupied  her  all  along  the  way; 
it  made  her  heart  beat  more  quickly  now  than 
usual,  under  her  flowered  cotton  bodice.  And 
the  thought  which  holds  us,  you  know,  poses  and 
shapes  us  to  its  fancy.  The  young  girl  did  not 
look  at  the  hedge,  certainly,  but  she  watched  it 
from  the  corner  of  her  bright  eyes,  wandering 
over  the  meadow.  She  expected  something  which 
was  coming  from  there.  She  felt  herself  very 
near  a  serious  moment,  and  a  mysterious  one  too, 
of  her  life.  She  trembled  at  a  breath  of  air  in  the 
brambles.  The  gliding  of  a  field-mouse  over  the 
dead  leaves  seemed  to  her  a  step  which  was  ap- 
proaching. At  times  she  closed  her  eyes  to  recover 
herself,  and  not  to  yield  to  a  kind  of  vertigo  which 
seized  her.  She  felt  a  wish  to  say  to  the  daisies, 
(a  foolish  idea  which  she  had  never  had  before !) : 
"Do  not  look  at  me  so,  all  together,  with  your 
eyes  of  gold.  I  am  a  poor  girl  whom  usually  you 
do  not  care  for!"  It  seemed  to  her  that  these 
thousands  of  witnesses  were  observing  her  agitated 
air.  She  clasped  then,  with  her  gloved  hand,  the 


OF   THE   POOR  235 

parasol  which  bathed  her  cheeks,  her  forehead,  all 
her  fair  person,  with  a  pink  reflection.  The  idea 
that  her  parasol  made  her  prettier,  and  gave  her 
the  look  of  a  young  lady,  passed  through  her  mind. 
And,  smiling,  happy  and  anxious  at  the  same  time, 
among  the  daisies  which  surrounded  her  with  their 
flowers  or  sowed  the  down  of  their  seeds  upon  her 
dress,  she  was  more  charming  still. 

The  intense  midday  heat  warmed  the  meadow; 
the  perfume  of  the  hay  rose  from  it  like  the  in- 
cense of  summer.  The  mowers  advanced,  swing- 
ing their  arms.  How  long  did  she  remain  thus? 
She  had  no  idea  at  all.  Love  does  not  count  the 
length  of  its  dreams.  Suddenly,  without  her  per- 
ceiving the  least  noise  of  steps  or  of  tossed  leaves, 
she  heard  a  voice  from  the  other  side  of  the  hedge, 
calling: 

"De'sire'e!" 

All  the  blood  in  her  veins  rushed  back  to  her 
heart.  She  remained  motionless,  pale  as  if  she 
were  going  to  swoon.  Through  the  hawthorn 
the  same  voice  repeated : 

"DSsiree!" 

She  rose  slowly  then  and  turned  around. 

It  was  he.  He  had  come  as  she  had  foreseen. 
He  looked  at  her  half  hidden  by  the  hedge,  and, 
in  his  eyes,  there  was  the  confession  of  his  love 
and  the  pride  of  feeling  himself  loved.  A  sprig 
of  broom  hung  from  the  ribbon  of  his  cap.  He 
had  not  dressed  himself  up.  He  had  run,  on  see- 
ing her,  he,  the  rich  man,  in  his  work-day  clothes, 
like  an  honest  lad  who  does  not  try  to  deceive. 

Strange  to  say,  it  was  this  contrast  between  her- 


236      THE   LITTLE   SISTERS 

self  and  him  which  first  struck  Desire*e,  and  her 
agitation  was  increased.  She,  who  barely  earned 
her  living,  had  decked  herself  out;  she,  whose 
parents,  for  want  of  bread,  had  had  to  have  re- 
course to  the  charity  of  the  Sisters.  Her  parasol 
and  her  lisle-thread  gloves,  two  luxuries  which 
she  had  never  had  before,  gave  her  the  effect  of  a 
falsehood.  She  was  troubled.  She  was  ashamed. 
Her  pleasure  of  a  moment  before,  her  vanity  at 
being  well  dressed,  seemed  to  her  ridiculous,  guilty 
even.  She  began  to  despise  herself.  Without 
ceasing  to  look  at  the  hedge,  without  saying  a 
word,  she  took  off  her  gloves  and  let  them  fall 
to  the  ground.  The  red  parasol  escaped  from 
her  hands  and  rolled  on  the  grass.  Then,  when 
she  had  become  again  the  simple  work-girl,  with 
bare  hands,  with  cheeks  exposed  to  the  sun,  in  the 
dress  which  she  had  worn  for  a  long  time,  with 
nothing  pretentious,  the  true  daughter  of  the 
chair-mender,  a  single  phrase  fell  from  her  lips,  a 
word  of  humble  and  sad  love : 

"I  am  very  poor!"  she  said. 

But  he  began  to  smile,  with  a  kind,  tender 
smile.  Poor?  He  knew  it  very  well.  He  liked 
her  so.  And  as  she  stood  motionless,  all  blush- 
ing in  the  growing  joy  of  welcomed  love,  he  put 
aside  the  branches  better  to  see  her  and  said : 

"Come,  Desiree!" 

She  obeyed  as  if  he  had  the  right  to  command 
her.  Already  she  belonged  to  him.  A  few  yards 
from  there  she  found  a  gap ;  he  stretched  his  hand 
to  her;  she  passed  through  the  hedge.  A  whole 
cloud  of  butterflies  passed  before  her. 


OF   THE   POOR  237 

Once  on  the  other  side,  Desired  did  not  with- 
draw the  hand  which  she  had  given,  and,  holding 
each  other  thus,  they  began  a  walk  around  the 
mill,  the  pleasantest  walk  that  either  had  ever 
taken. 

However,  Le  Bolloche,  coming  to  the  place  in 
the  meadow  which  he  had  pointed  out  to  his 
daughter,  stopped  before  the  red  parasol,  which, 
resting  on  its  handle  and  two  of  its  whalebones, 
only  shaded  a  bunch  of  daisies  and  buttercups. 
He  naturally  concluded  that  De"sire*e  was  not  far 
away;  he  looked  for  her  in  the  meadow,  found 
nothing  there,  looked  over  the  hedge  and  saw  her 
on  the  arm  of  the  miller.  He  was  not  more  ex- 
cited than  he  had  reason  to  be,  knowing  that  his 
daughter  was  prudent  and  finding  that  the  other 
had  an  honest  look.  His  first  impulse  was  to  call 
them,  but  there  were  too  many  people  around. 
He  preferred  to  go  and  find  them.  So  five  min- 
utes later  Pere  Le  Bolloche,  De*sire*e,  and  the  mil- 
ler were  all  three  talking  together. 

Ten  minutes  later  it  was  the  same.  An  hour 
passed  without  the  subject,  it  appears,  being 
exhausted.  The  shadow  of  the  mill  lengthened 
out  on  the  knoll.  The  remaining  seven  mowers 
rested  more  and  more.  The  chief  of  the  squad 
did  not  return.  A  sister  was  obliged  to  recall 
him,  saying: 

"Well!  well!  Pere  Le  Bolloche,  to-day  is  not  the 
day  for  going  out!" 

Then  the  group  separated;  the  old  man  went 
back  to  the  hospital.  De'sire'e  took  the  road  to 
the  town  and  the  miller  mounted  his  ladder. 


238      THE   LITTLE   SISTERS 

When  night  came  and  the  little  old  men  were  in 
bed,  Le  Bolloche,  whom  the  moonlight  prevented 
from  sleeping,  awoke  his  neighbour  to  tell  him : 

"Pere  Lizourette,  I  am  going  to  marry  my 
daughter!" 

"  D&iree?    With  a  zouave?  " 

"No." 

"Then  with  a  cavalryman?" 

"No." 

"Is  he  only  in  the  line?"  continued  the  neigh- 
bour, with  an  air  of  commiseration;  "you  are  going 
to  many  her  into  the  line?" 

"  Not  even  that.  He  only  did  two  months  serv- 
ice, as  the  son  of  a  widow.  I  know  that  is  not 
much,  but  what  can  you  do?  He  plays  the  fife 
in  a  band,  where  there  are  many  old  soldiers." 

"Ah!  he  plays  the  fife!" 

"Yes." 

"It  is  a  fine  instrument!" 

"Rather  small,"  replied  Le  BoUoche.  "But 
the  children  suit  each  other.  I  saw  that,  and 
then- 

"You  have  done  well,"  said  Lizourette  senten- 
tiously;  "one  must  not  be  hard  upon  the  young." 

And  the  two  old  soldiers,  satisfied,  having  ex- 
hausted all  their  opinions,  went  to  sleep.  The  ray 
of  moonlight  which  looked  on  Le  Bolloche  moved 
over  to  Lizourette  and  thence  on  to  the  neigh- 
bouring beds,  whose  arrangement  resembled  a  row 
of  white  stones.  When  Sister  Dorothe"e,  on  her 
tour  of  inspection,  passed  Le  Bolloche,  she  thought : 

"How  happy  this  old  man  looks;  that  gives  ma 
pleasure!" 


OF  THE   POOR  239 

At  the  same  hour  the  young  miller,  leaning  on 
his  elbows  out  of  his  round  window,  was  thinking, 
his  head  bathed  in  the  bracing  air  which  blew  up 
from  the  river;  and  he  was  so  happy  to  be  alive 
that  he,  calm  and  taciturn  by  nature  and  not  a 
poet  at  all,  felt  a  desire  to  sing.  He  gazed  far 
away,  above  the  city,  to  a  point  of  the  horizon 
where  the  tiny  gas-jets,  farther  apart  than  hi 
other  places,  marked  the  beginning  of  the  coun- 
try. There  his  heart  pictured  to  him  the  girl, 
radiant,  laying  out  the  straw  in  the  sunshine,  the 
girl  whom  he  had  chosen,  the  one  who  just  now 
had  given  him  her  hand,  the  one  who  soon  would 
be  his  wife. 

And  yet  it  was  deep  night  and  in  the  enclosure 
Desire"e  was  not  spreading  out  rye  straw.  She 
was  standing  by  the  bed  of  her  grandmother,  who 
had  wished  to  go  to  bed  as  usual  but  who  did  not 
wish  to  go  to  sleep. 

"Tell  me  again  something  about  him,"  said  the 
blind  mother.  "Is  his  hair  light?" 

"Rather  dark,"  replied  Desire"e,  laughing. 

"A  jolly  face?" 

"Rather." 

"I  like  that,"  continued  the  old  woman.  "My 
departed  was  the  same.  Does  he  talk  much?" 

"  That  depends.   With  me,  he  scarcely  stopped." 

"Look  at  her,  this  child,  how  proud  she  is  to 
be  young!  And  you  say  that  he  has  some  prop- 
erty?" 

"Oh,  yes!  a  great  deal,  Grandmother,  much 
more  than  we!" 

"But  do  you  know,  I  cannot  get  used  to  the 


240      THE   LITTLE   SISTERS 

idea,  my  daughter!  What  did  you  do  to  please 
him?" 

De*siree  laughed  with  all  her  heart,  with  a  laugh 
which  said:  "Why,  Grandmother,  if  you  could 
see  me!"  And  in  truth  the  humble  mender  of 
chairs  was  beautiful,  all  beaming  with  a  deep 
and  calm  joy.  When  the  grandmother  had  ceased 
to  chatter,  when  she  herself  succeeded  in  going 
to  sleep  in  the  early  hours  of  the  morning,  she 
dreamed  charming  dreams :  that  the  mill  had  new 
wings;  that  there  were  four  bouquets  of  orange 
blossoms  at  the  end  of  the  arms;  that  she  stood 
in  the  door,  beautifully  dressed,  and  that  the 
children,  coming  out  of  school,  passed  before  her 
and  bowed  to  her  saying: 

"Good  day,  Madame!" 

VII. 

The  grandmother  had  reason  to  be  glad,  for  it 
had  been  agreed,  by  express  stipulation,  at  the 
request  of  Desire*e,  that  the  young  household 
should  live  in  the  house  of  the  meadow.  Her  old 
age  would  be  well  sheltered  between  these  two, 
who  would  take  care  of  her.  She  would  assuredly 
have  her  share  in  their  happiness,  as  an  old-topped 
tree  in  an  orchard,  upon  which  others,  full  of  sap, 
let  their  petals  fall,  so  that  one  imagines  that  it 
still  has  blossoms.  This  miller  of  the  white  mill 
was  an  honest  youth,  accommodating  and  very 
much  in  love,  since  he  was  willing  to  go  every 
morning  and  every  evening  over  the  road  which 
separated  his  mill  from  the  faubourg.  All  was 


OFTHEPOOR  241 

rose-coloured  in  that  quarter;  there  were  no  peo- 
ple so  happy  to  be  young  as  Desiree  and  her 
fiance,  nor  any  old  woman  less  sad  to  be  old  than 
Grandmother  Le  Bolloche.  But  at  the  Little  Sis- 
ters of  the  Poor  a  cloud  darkened  the  humour  of 
the  old  sergeant.  After  a  few  days  of  perfect 
content  he  had  suddenly  sunk  into  a  profound 
melancholy.  What  was  the  matter?  Was  he 
sorry  to  give  up  his  daughter?  Why,  no!  The 
sacrifice  was  consummated,  he  was  even  more  and 
more  accustomed  to  the  hospital,  to  his  comrades, 
to  the  abundant  coffee  of  the  sisters,  to  their 
cares,  to  the  sunny  far  nienie  of  the  field  of  rye. 
Had  his  future  son-in-law  offended  him?  In  no 
way.  Le  Bolloche  suffered  from  what  had  held 
and  still  held  so  great  a  place  in  his  life:  from 
the  want  of  the  plume.  He  was  vain.  In  his 
limited  mind,  the  mind  of  a  former  sergeant 
decked  with  braid  and  with  chevrons,  he  turned 
over  now  at  every  hour  of  the  day  the  same  com- 
plaint, which  he  confided  to  no  one. 

"What  sort  of  a  figure  will  I  cut  at  DesireVs 
wedding,  fitted  out  as  I  am,  with  a  chopped-off 
jacket,  my  trousers  too  short,  my  shoes,  my 
zouave  cap  worn  out  and  without  a  crown?  Is 
that  full  dress?  The  relatives  and  friends  that 
they  will  invite  in  numbers  will  laugh  at  me,  for 
it  will  be  a  beautiful  fete.  Those  who  have  not 
seen  me  for  twenty  years  will  be  ashamed  to 
recognise  me,  and  even  Desiree,  good  daughter 
as  she  is,  will  not  be  flattered  in  her  new  wedding- 
dress,  to  have  such  a  sorry-looking  father  by  her 
side.  Better  not  to  go.  No,  I  will  not  go!" 


242      THE   LITTLE   SISTERS 

And  already  he  had  begun  to  prepare  his  com- 
rades in  arms  and  in  the  last  asylum  for  this  des- 
perate resolution. 

"I  shall  probably  not  go,"  he  said  to  them.  "I 
have  a  deuce  of  a  rheumatism  in  my  shoulder!" 
But  they  did  not  believe  a  word  of  it.  Rheuma- 
tism, he!  Go  along!  When  he  was  walking  by 
himself,  they  saw  him  from  the  distance  twirl  his 
cane  about,  cutting  off  with  a  sharp  blow  the  heads 
of  thistles  growing  on  the  edge  of  the  field.  The 
very  vigour  of  the  twirl  was  enough  to  prove  that 
Le  Bolloche  lied;  it  also  showed  a  violent  state  of 
mind,  which  the  sisters,  naturally,  were  not  with- 
out remarking. 

"  I  do  not  know  what  ails  our  little  Pere  Le  Bol- 
loche?" remarked  Sister  Dorothee;  "he  eats  well, 
he  drinks  well,  he  sleeps  well,  he  had  his  supply  of 
tobacco  again  day  before  yesterday;  and  yet  he 
does  not  seem  happy!" 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  poor  pensioners  who  are 
thus  cared  for  usually  find  nothing  to  complain 
of.  As  she  was  a  woman  and  a  very  inquisitive  one, 
— which  no  vow  prevents — she  wished  to  know. 
One  morning  as  she  was  dressing  one  of  his  com- 
panions— for  Le  Bolloche  dressed  himself  with- 
out help — she  plied  the  latter  with  adroitly  put 
questions.  She  did  not  ask  him  outright :  "What 
is  the  matter?"  No,  but  already  suspecting  that 
the  wedding  of  Desiree  was  the  cause  of  his  trouble, 
she  said : 

"I  hope,  Le  Bolloche,  that  you  will  be  happy 
to  see  your  daughter  a  bride." 

"Without  doubt,"  growled  Le  Bolloche. 


OFTHEPOOR  243 

"And  where  will  the  wedding  take  place?  In 
the  meadow,  I  wager." 

"Yes." 

"They  will  dance?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you  will  open  the  dance,  of  course?" 

Le  Bolloche  could  contain  himself  no  longer. 

"Dressed — like  this,  yes,  will  I?"  he  cried. 
"A  former  non-commissioned  officer  of  zouaves! 
I  look  as  if  I  should  dance  there — I  shall  not 
even  go!" 

"Oh,"  said  the  sister,  smiling,  "how  vain  you 
are!" 

She  who  had  never  been  vain!  Le  Bolloche 
did  not  take  the  jest  in  good  part.  The  wrinkle 
at  both  corners  of  his  mouth  deepened. 

"I  am  nothing  but  a  beggar  here,"  he  cried; 
"my  time  is  past,  past.  I  have  no  wish  to  appear 
in  the  world  any  more,  and  that  is  it!" 

He  walked  away  with  long  strides,  fuming  with 
rage.  Sister  Dorothee  followed  him  with  her 
eyes,  a  smile  lengthened  her  lips,  a  smile  in  which 
there  was  pity  and  pleasure  at  having  been  adroit, 
and  also  the  radiance  of  a  sweet  thought  which 
she  had  just  had.  She  made  haste  to  dress  Pere 
Lizourette;  she  tied  his  cravat,  which  she  amused 
herself  in  arranging  like  the  wings  of  a  butterfly, 
and,  handing  him  his  cane,  said:  "You  are  hand- 
some as  a  star,  go  amuse  yourself."  Then  she 
left  the  ward,  directing  her  steps  toward  the 
superior's  room.  Along  the  broad  silent  corri- 
dors she  glided  lightly  as  if  borne  on  the  wings 
of  the  thought  which  had  come  to  her. 


244      THE   LITTLE   SISTERS 

Three  weeks  passed  in  this  way,  during  which 
Le  Bolloche  became  more  and  more  sad. 

At  last  the  day  fixed  for  the  wedding  of  De*- 
siree  arrived. 

On  that  morning  Le  Bolloche,  who  had  scarcely 
slept,  rose  a  little  before  the  others  and  went  out 
under  the  pretext  of  going  to  dig  in  his  garden. 
But  scarcely  outside,  he  stopped ;  he  sought  in  the 
distance  the  country  where  his  poor  mind  had 
wandered  all  night.  From  the  hill  of  the  hospital, 
old  as  he  was,  he  could  not  distinguish  the  house. 
But  in  the  blue  mist  of  the  morning  he  made  out 
the  white  spot  which  the  faubourg  made,  and  the 
pale-green  masses  which  were  the  orchards.  A 
pure  breath  of  air  came  from  them.  The  poor  old 
man  felt  his  eyes  fill  with  tears,  and  he  imagined 
that  he  heard,  carried  by  the  wind,  a  voice  which 
said: 

"Come,  Father,  get  up;  come,  it  is  my  wedding- 
day.  Grandmother  has  a  new  dress,  which  my 
fiance*  gave  her.  For  me,  I  am  beautiful  as  the 
day.  I  have  a  wreath  of  wax  flowers,  a  figured 
shawl  and  a  brooch  to  fasten  it;  above  all,  my 
heart  is  full  of  joy,  for  in  three  hours  we  will  start 
to  be  married.  Come,  I  wish  to  kiss  you  very- 
hard  for  having  given  me  life,  which  is  so  sweet 
now,  life  which  opens  like  a  fete.  Come  and  see 
my  happiness!" 

Le  Bolloche,  agitated,  his  mind  half  wandering, 
hesitated  a  moment;  then  he  recovered  his  senses, 
shook  his  head,  gave  the  faubourg  a  last  look  and 
repeated  what  he  had  not  ceased  to  say : 

"No,  I  will  not  go!" 


OFTHEPOOR  245 

He  began  walking  down  to  the  rear  of  the  en- 
closure, where  his  garden  was,  but  he  had  not  taken 
thirty  steps  when  some  one  tapped  him  on  the 
shoulder.  He  turned  around.  It  was  his  wife. 

"Husband,"  she  said,  "come  with  me!" 

"Whereto?" 

"Come  to  the  parlour  before  going  home!" 

"We  have  no  home." 

"Come  just  the  same;  you  will  see." 

Usually  he  did  not  comply  readily  with  the 
requests  of  his  wife,  but  he  was  so  dejected  and 
she  seemed  to  be  in  such  good  spirits  that,  partly 
from  indifference,  partly  from  the  attraction  of  a 
partial  surprise,  he  followed  her.  When  they 
reached  the  door  of  the  parlour  near  the  entrance, 
Mere  Le  Bolloche  stood  by  the  wall  and  let  her 
husband  pass. 

"Enter,  Le  Bolloche,"  she  said,  "and  let  us 
dress  for  the  wedding." 

The  good  man  entered  and  stopped  stupefied. 
He  had  just  discovered,  carefully  folded  on  the 
back  of  a  chair,  a  complete  suit,  handsomer  than 
any  he  had  worn  since  he  had  been  in  civil  life: 
a  grey  pair  of  trousers,  still  fresh;  a  waistcoat,  a 
black  frock  coat,  a  light  cravat  with  blue  polka 
dots,  and  a  silk  hat  which  had  endured  more  than 
one  ironing,  but  was  still  upright  on  its  base  and 
very  similar  in  form  to  that  of  the  former  shako, 
which  could  not  fail  to  please  an  old  soldier  like 
Le  Bolloche.  The  latter,  without  more  hesitation, 
began  to  dress.  Everything  fitted  well ;  one  would 
have  sworn  that  a  tailor  had  taken  his  measure. 
When  he  put  his  hand  in  his  trousers  pocket,  he 


246      THE   LITTLE   SISTERS 

drew  out  a  piece  of  silver.  When  he  crossed  the 
wide  lapels  of  his  frock  coat  upon  his  breast,  his 
military  medal  shone  there,  attached  by  a  new 
ribbon. 

During  this  time  the  little  old  woman  put  on  a 
cotton  dress  with  wide  plaits;  pinned  a  yellow 
handkerchief  with  brown  stripes,  brilliant  and 
shaded  like  an  African  pink,  upon  her  breast; 
fastened  the  ties  of  a  niched  cap,  ornamented 
with  two  blue  bows.  Decidedly,  Sister  Dorothee 
had  forgotten  nothing.  So  many  fine  things  rep- 
resented for  her  many  hours  of  work,  many  late 
nights,  since  the  sisters  have  no  leisure  in  the  day- 
time for  these  exceptional,  fond  indulgences. 

Le  Bolloche  felt  his  heart  swell  with  emotion 
in  thinking  of  it.  He  recalled  the  harsh  words 
which  he  had  many  times  spoken.  Tears  came 
to  his  eyes,  and  he  had  all  the  trouble  in  the  world 
to  keep  them  back;  for  an  old  sergeant  never 
weeps. 

But  when  they  came  out  of  the  parlour  and  he 
saw  in  the  courtyard  his  cart  freshly  painted,  the 
donkey  harnessed,  combed,  dressed  for  Sunday 
too,  with  red  pompons  on  the  blinders,  the  poor 
old  man  could  not  control  his  feelings;  great  tears 
rolled  down  his  cheeks.  He  went  straight  up  to 
Sister  Dorothee,  who  was  standing  at  the  head  of 
the  equipage,  and  took  her  hand. 

"Sister!"  he  exclaimed  with  a  stifled  voice. 

"What  is  it,  my  good  man?" 

"Sister,  this  is  religion  and  the  true  kind.  I 
know  it,  you  can  believe  me,  for  I  have  travelled 
much!  Yes,  the  true " 


OFTHEPOOR  247 

He  could  not  finish.  But  the  sister  understood 
perfectly.  He  got  into  the  cart,  made  his  wife 
sit  down  beside  him,  and  touched  up  the  donkey. 

After  a  few  paces  he  stopped  the  animal,  turned 
around  and,  with  a  face  this  time  beaming,  called 
again : 

"Sister  Dorothee,  since  it  appears  that  it  will 
give  you  pleasure,  I  will  dance  at  the  wedding  of 
DesireV 

"Be  good!"  replied  the  sister. 

And  as  she  watched  the  couple  ride  off  to  the 
slow  trot  of  the  donkey  between  the  walls  of  the 
neighbouring  street,  the  sister  felt  a  longing  to 
weep  in  her  turn,  feeling  indeed  that  she  had  won 
the  heart  of  the  old  zouave,  the  most  difficult  of 
her  "little  old  men." 


THE  RAPHAEL  OF  MONSIEUR 
PRUNELIER. 


THE  RAPHAEL  OF  MONSIEUR 
PRUNELIER. 


I. 

WHY  was  he  walking  along  the  bank  of  the  Aulne, 
he  who  never  walked  for  pleasure?  Why  saun- 
tering leisurely  along  the  pleasant  path,  bordered 
with  beech-trees,  which  leads  from  Port-Launay 
to  Chateaulin,  with  beaming  countenance,  nod- 
ding with  a  paternal  gesture  to  the  washerwomen 
who  were  kneeling  at  intervals  on  the  sloping 
bank  and  who  stopped  beating  the  linen  long 
enough  to  say:  "Bon  jour,  Monsieur  Piedouche!" 
That  is  a  point  which  no  one  can  explain.  Mon- 
sieur Piedouche,  for  thirty  years  banker  at  Cha- 
teaulin, wealthy,  influential,  and  esteemed,  never 
confided  his  affairs  to  any  one.  A  despatch  from 
the  Stock  Exchange  that  afternoon  had  put  him  in 
a  good  humour;  that  is  all  that  the  best-informed 
of  his  clerks  knew.  He  left  his  office  and  after 
an  hour's  walk  was  now  returning,  pleased  with 
himself,  the  weather,  the  landscape — filled  with 
overflowing  sympathy  for  the  beggars  of  the  street. 
His  joy  found  expression  in  every  way,  in  alms, 
bows,  smiles,  in  humming  or  whistling  refrains 

251 


252  THE   RAPHAEL   OF 

of  his  youth.  Bubbling  over  with  happiness,  he 
was  seized  with  an  irresistible  desire  to  buy  some- 
thing, and  an  engraving  in  the  rue  du  Tribunal 
catching  his  eye,  he  stopped. 

The  engraving,  exposed  with  several  others  in 
the  low  window  of  an  old  house,  was  plainly  a 
Nicholas  Berghem.  The  subject  was  a  group  of 
trees  half  stripped  of  their  leaves,  a  ford,  a  woman 
on  a  donkey,  a  fleecy  sky — the  whole  in  the  most 
pleasing  style  and  precisely  in  the  key  in  which 
the  spirit  of  Monsieur  Pie"douche  was  pitched. 

"I  am  going  to  give  pleasure  to  two  persons," 
he  thought:  "to  myself,  in  the  first  place,  and 
then  to  poor  Monsieur  Prunelier." 

He  ascended  the  three  moss-grown  steps,  worn 
on  the  edges  where  so  many  generations  had  trod, 
and  rung  the  bell.  The  mistress  of  the  house 
answered  the  bell.  She  was  plainly  not  a  woman 
of  the  country.  Her  fair  hair  rolled  back  over  a 
shell  comb,  something  alert  and  quick  in  her 
movements,  a  youthful  look,  in  spite  of  the  forty 
years  which  had  marked  the  rosy  face  with  fine 
crossed  lines,  her  speech,  too,  so  quick  and  with- 
out accent — in  short,  her  whole  personality  was 
different  from  that  of  the  provincial  woman.  As 
soon  as  she  had  ushered  Monsieur  Piedouche  into 
the  drawing-room,  she  seated  herself  upon  a  low 
chair,  her  back  against  the  light. 

"You  wish  to  see  Monsieur  Prunelier?"  she 
asked. 

"No,  Madame." 

"What  a  pity!"  she  continued,  without  heed- 
ing the  reply;  "my  husband  is  out,  I  do  not  ex- 


MONSIEUR   PRUNELIER    253 

pect  him  home  before  six  o'clock  this  evening. 
But  he  will  go  to  your  house,  you  know.  His 
terms  are  the  very  lowest :  for  a  simple  crayon  five 
francs  only  for  a  sitting,  and  likeness  guaranteed; 
naturally  oil  is  dearer.  I  strongly  advise  you  to 
have  oil.  Oil  is  Monsieur  Prunelier's  specialty. 
Felix  has  so  much  talent!" 

"You  are  mistaken,"  interrupted  the  banker. 
"I  have  no  intention  of  having  my  portrait 
painted.  I  came  in  merely  to  ask  the  price  of  the 
engraving  in  the  window  below." 

The  poor  woman  had  hoped  something  more 
from  the  visit  of  the  banker.  Sensitive,  like  those 
who  have  known  better  days,  she  held  up  her 
head  and  replied  with  a  somewhat  piqued  air: 

"The  Berghem  of  Monsieur  Prunelier  is  not 
for  sale." 

The  banker,  who  was  a  kind-hearted  man,  rose 
and,  desiring  to  take  his  leave  graciously,  pointed 
to  three  paintings  hanging  above  the  sofa  of  worn 
cretonne:  "Samples  of  your  famous  collection, 
Madame  Prunelier?  They  are  beautiful  paint- 
ings!" 

"They  are  by  Lancret,"  she  replied  with  indif- 
ference; "the  French  school.  Lancret  is  a  mas- 
ter much  sought  after  at  sales." 

"Very  much  sought  after,"  repeated  the  banker 
vaguely,  not  knowing  much  about  it, -but  still 
desirous  of  leaving  an  agreeable  impression. 

"Would  you  care  to  visit  the  gallery?"  asked 
Madame  Prunelier  at  once. 

He  accepted.  He  was  not  sorry  to  see  this  col- 
lection which  had  a  reputation  throughout  Finis- 


254  THE   RAPHAEL   OF 

t£re  and  which  caused  the  people  of  Chateaulin 
to  say:  "You  know,  whenever  the  Pruneliers  want 
to  have  an  income,  it  will  be  easy  for  them." 

Madame  Prunelier  led  the  way;  she  left  him 
for  an  instant  standing  before  a  door,  while  she 
went  for  the  key,  came  back,  opened  the  door 
and  stood  aside  that  the  banker  might  enter  first 
and  receive  better  "the  shock  of  the  masters." 

It  was  dazzling,  in  fact,  at  first  sight.  From 
the  four  walls  of  the  room  hung  with  paintings 
in  gilded  frames,  sparks  flashed  forth,  a  diffusion 
of  red  and  yellow  gold,  and  mingled  with  tiny 
glints  from  the  varnish,  with  reflections  from 
brilliant  draperies,  trailing  from  the  inclined  can- 
vases and  stretching  out  on  the  white  and  brown 
parquetry,  a  fine  inlaid  floor  on  which  the  three 
windows  of  the  fagade  were  reflected  as  in  a  mirror. 

A  second  surprise  followed.  Each  picture  bore 
the  name  of  the  artist  upon  a  scroll.  And  what 
names!  The  greatest  of  all  schools,  of  all  ages, 
grouped  together  by  a  magic  wand  which  had  not 
forgotten  any!  Ruysdael  elbowed  Hobbema;  a 
beggar  of  Ribera  invoked  a  Virgin  of  Leonardo; 
two  paintings  of  Perugini  flanked  a  triptych  of 
the  elder  Holbein.  There  were  smaller  canvases 
by  Teniers,  Potter,  Fragonard.  Certain  ones,  a 
very  few,  joined  with  an  "Anonymous"  which 
greatly  lessened  their  importance,  were  placed 
in  the  corners,  bearing  the  legend:  "Venetian 
School,"  "Florentine  School,"  "Flemish  School." 

"All  these  have  been  discovered,  restored,  and 
retouched  by  Monsieur  Prunelier,"  said  the  lady 
after  a  moment;  "Felix  has  so  much  talent!" 


MONSIEUR   PRUNELIER    255 

Then  perceiving  how  little  artistic  discernment 
was  shown  by  Monsieur  Pie"douche,  who  only 
paused  before  the  carved  frames,  she  exclaimed 
amiably : 

"This  one  is  our  Poussin,  French  school,  'The 
Kiss  of  Saint  Dominic  and  Saint  Francis. ' ' 

The  banker  thought  to  himself  that  the  two 
saints  looked  like  two  rogues,  but  was  not  rude 
enough  to  say  so. 

"This  one  here,"  continued  the  hostess,  "is  a 
painting  of  the  first  order:  'The  Combat,'  by  Sal- 
vator  Rosa.  Notice  what  relief,  what  lif e !  Roths- 
child would  have  had  this  long  ago  had  we  been 
willing." 

This  seemed  greatly  to  impress  Monsieur  Pie"- 
douche.  He  examined  the  painting  very  closely. 
The  rumps  of  three  horses  occupied  the  fore- 
ground, and  behind  these  dappled-grey  rotundi- 
ties a  frightful  conflict  of  factions  appeared  to 
be  taking  place. 

"Then  you  were  not  willing?"  he  asked. 

"Naturally." 

He  lifted  his  eyebrows  in  a  way  which  showed 
that  he  did  not  comprehend  in  the  least  why 
Monsieur  Prunelier  had  not  yielded  to  the  en- 
treaties of  Rothschild. 

"Where  is  it  signed?"  he  asked.  "I  have  so 
little  knowledge  of  paintings  that  I  do  not  know 
even  whether  one  should  look  for  the  signature 
on  the  right  or  the  left." 

The  poor  man  was  ignorant  that  these  searches 
for  paternity  in  private  collections  are  usually  in 
the  worst  taste.  Madame  Prunelier  made  him 
conscious  of  this. 


256  THE   RAPHAEL   OF 

"You  should  know,"  she  said,  "that  Salvator 
rarely  ever  signed.  After  all,  what  does  a  signa- 
ture amount  to?  It  is  the  brush,  Monsieur,  the 
composition,  the  colouring,  which  are  the  true 
signature,  that  which  cannot  be  imitated!" 

Under  this  shower  of  censures,  Monsieur  Pie- 
douche  continued  his  way  along  the  same  wall. 
Only  he  made  more  haste. 

Madame  Prunelier  was  silent,  and  let  him  walk 
along.  But  when  she  saw  that  her  visitor  was 
approaching  the  last  panel,  that  he  was  on  the 
point  of  passing  perhaps  without  noticing  it, 
this  masterpiece,  enshrined  in  an  open-worked, 
carved  ebony  frame,  she  could  not  resist  the 
temptation  of  rejoining  him  and  resuming  her 
r61e  of  cicerone. 

"A  Raphael!"  she  murmured  in  a  slow,  dreamy 
voice,  suffused  with  emotion.  She  waited. 

However  determined  Monsieur  Piedouche  was 
not  to  show  the  slightest  sign  of  scepticism  again, 
he  gave  a  slight  start  at  this  name. 

"You  are  amazed!  Every  one  feels  the  same!" 
continued  Madame  Prunelier  in  the  same  stifled 
tone.  "  Yes,  Monsieur,  a  Raphael  Sanzio !  a  copy 
of  this  Madonna  is  in  the  Naples  Museum." 

The  banker  bowed. 

"I  say  a  copy  truly.  Some  amateurs  of  Cha- 
teaulin  recently  visited  Naples  and  saw  the  copy; 
on  their  return,  they  declared  to  me,  standing  here 
in  the  very  place  where  you  are:  'It  is  beauti- 
ful, Madame  Prunelier,  but  it  is  not  like  this! 
In  your  gallery  one  feels  that  they  are  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  original.'  That  is  exactly  what  you 
have  just  experienced.  I  watched  for  that  move- 


MONSIEUR   PRUNELIER    257 

ment  of  the  shoulders,  that  shiver  of  authenticity, 
as  my  husband  terms  it." 

The  worthy  man,  grown  prudent,  did  not 
breathe  a  word.  She  looked  at  him  for  an  in- 
stant and  concluded  with  this  phrase,  which  was 
a  warning: 

"Besides,  the  Raphael  of  Monsieur  Prunelier 
has  never  been  questioned!" 

Monsieur  Piedouche  had  no  desire  to  question 
the  Raphael.  He  passed  down  the  stairs  and  was 
on  the  point  of  taking  leave  of  Madame  Prunelier 
when  the  door  opened  and  Monsieur  Prunelier, 
tall  and  ungainly,  his  hat  on  his  head,  came 
in  like  a  whirlwind.  Monsieur  Prunelier's  eyes 
were  set  wide  apart,  giving  him  a  grim  look.  He 
fastened  one  of  them  on  the  banker  and  his 
glance  asked:  "What  kind  of  a  man  is  he?  Oil? 
Crayon?  Simple  cockney ! " 

"Monsieur  has  just  visited  our  gallery,"  re- 
plied his  wife. 

Monsieur  Prunelier  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
vexed  no  doubt  at  having  wasted  so  much  time 
on  a  bourgeois,  pushed  open  the  door  of  the  draw- 
ing-room with  his  hand  and  disappeared,  saying: 

"  I  wish  to  speak  to  you,  Valentine." 

Then  as  soon  as  he  was  alone  with  her  in  the 
dining-room  adjoining  the  drawing-room,  where 
she  had  followed  in  haste  and  anxious,  he  cried, 
still  tragic : 

"Valentine,  there  is  going  to  be  an  Exposition 
of  Fine  Arts  at  Chateaulin!" 

She  divined  the  unexpressed  thought  of  the 
master.  Something  sorrowful  and  tender  passed 


258  THE   RAPHAEL   OF 

over  her  face  and,  wishing  to  be  certain,  she  said : 
"Well,  Fe-lix?" 

He  was  still  theatrical  when  he  answered : 

"I  have  decided!  I  will  exhibit  it!  I  wish  to 
sell  it.  Do  not  forbid  me ! " 

But  she  was  natural  and  touching  when  she 
thanked  him,  saying,  her  eyes  moist  with  great 
tears: 

"You  are  generous,  Felix,  you  are  brave.  It 
is  well!" 

But  emotion  was  not  lasting  with  either  of 
them.  They  sat  down  to  table  before  a  slice  of 
pate"  and  a  plate  of  cherries,  found  that  they  were 
hungry,  and  began  talking  and  laughing  about 
Monsieur  Pie"douche,  about  the  provincial  bour- 
geois, as  they  had  not  talked  or  laughed  for 
twenty  years,  not  since  the  golden  age  when,  on 
Sunday,  in  a  corner  of  Clamart  or  Meudon,  fa- 
tigued by  a  long  walk  through  the  woods,  with 
pockets  full  of  nuts  and  hearts  full  of  hope,  they 
dined  under  sunny  trellises,  facing  hazy  Paris. 

II. 

It  is  a  long  way  from  Paris  to  Chateaulin! 
How  had  they,  he  Gascon,  she  Parisienne,  both 
Bohemians  and  crazy  about  the  great  city,  ever 
come  to  run  aground  there?  What  reason  had 
led  them  to  choose  this  corner  of  Brittany — the 
most  common  one,  alas?  After  ten  years  spent 
in  expectation  of  a  medal  from  the  Salon,  the 
medal  failed  to  come;  the  dot  of  Madame  Pru- 
nelier  was  consumed;  Monsieur  Prunelier  was 


MONSIEUR   PRUNELIER    259 

soured.  During  the  winter  they  lived  a  life  of 
makeshifts;  in  summer,  for  the  sake  of  econ- 
omy, they  travelled  in  the  poor  districts,  where 
they  found  hotels  at  four  francs,  candles  included. 
Prunelier  continued  his  work  of  painting  land- 
scapes which  never  sold.  It  happened  that  once, 
at  Chateaulin  to  be  precise,  some  one  ordered  a 
portrait  from  him.  The  order  was  scarcely  fin- 
ished when  there  came  a  second,  then  a  third. 
People  begged  him  to  restore  the  portraits  of 
their  ancestors.  Women  of  the  world  addressed 
him  as:  "My  dear  Monsieur  Prunelier,"  and 
many  suggested  that  he  should  open  a  school  of 
design.  He  was  flattered.  He  fancied  that  the 
vein  would  never  be  exhausted,  and  he  settled 
down  in  the  midst  of  his  models. 

And  now  he  had  lived  at  Chateaulin  for  ten 
years,  less  and  less  occupied.  His  wife  took  care 
of  him,  nursed  him  in  the  tepid  atmosphere  of 
illusions  which  suited  his  childish  nature.  She 
was  a  worthy  woman,  endowed  with  the  energy  of 
the  Parisian  women,  who  are  models  of  patience, 
of  invention,  of  courage  in  the  struggle  with  pov- 
erty. You  can  readily  guess  that  she  had  often 
thought  of  selling  the  Raphael.  It  would  have 
been  so  good  to  have  no  more  debts,  to  live  lib- 
erally, to  be  able  to  buy  curtains  for  the  windows, 
and  the  fur  cape  which  she  coveted;  to  have 
flowers  in  profusion,  and — who  knows — to  dare  to 
say  to  Monsieur  Prunelier  on  waking  some  morn- 
ing: "Felix,  your  youth  and  mine  are  calling  us 
yonder.  Do  you  hear  them  singing  on  both 
banks  of  the  Seine — our  twenty  years  of  love,  our 


260  THE   RAPHAEL   OF 

long  hopes,  our  many  friendships  and  many  de- 
lightful hours,  the  poorest  of  which  I  regret  now? 
Come,  let  us  be  off,  will  you,  since  we  are  rich?" 
Yes,  she  had  dreamed  of  all  that  very  often,  with- 
out ever  putting  it  in  words.  The  sacrifice  of 
alienating  the  gem  of  his  collection  would  have 
been  too  cruel  for  Monsieur  Prunelier,  and  the 
worthy  woman  displayed  not  a  little  of  her  ten- 
derness in  never  hinting  at  such  a  separation. 

But  now!  Now  that  he  had  resolved  of  his 
own  accord  to  exhibit  his  masterpiece,  to  sell  it, 
witness  this  human  weakness:  she  had  no  longer 
the  courage  to  say  no;  she  felt  a  joy  for  which 
she  reproached  herself;  the  Raphael  became  odious 
to  her;  she  would  be  glad  to  know  that  it  was  far 
away,  in  the  chateau  of  one  of  those  English  lords 
who  pay  fabulous  prices  for  rare  works  of  art. 
Would  this  exposition  never  begin? 

The  day  came,  however,  as  all  days,  desired  or 
not,  do  come.  In  the  great  hall  of  the  civil  court, 
then  in  recess,  artists  of  every  class,  especially 
those  who  frequent  the  Breton  coast,  had  sent 
countless  apple-trees  in  bloom,  numbers  of  marine 
views  with  a  flame  of  light  trailing  over  the 
waters,  fisherwomen  of  Feyen-Perrin,  peasant 
girls  bearing  a  likeness  to  those  of  Jules  Breton, 
and  five  or  six  canvases,  huge  since  they  treated 
of  history,  and  a  still  life.  Upon  a  panel  reserved 
in  the  midst  of  old  paintings  loaned  from  the  cha- 
teaux of  Finistere,  and  filling  its  space,  were  the 
three  pearls  of  Monsieur  Prunelier:  the  Pous- 
sin,  the  Salvator  Rosa,  and  the  Raphael.  These 


MONSIEUR   PRUNELIER    261 

three  names,  freshly  gilded,  glistened  at  the  foot 
of  the  frames.  A  pennant  of  cardboard  under 
them,  extending  out  three  yards  in  length,  bore 
the  inscription:  "From  the  gallery  of  M.  Prunelier 
(Felix),  artist,  at  Chateaulin.  For  sale." 

The  artist,  his  exhibitor's  card  fastened  by 
a  rubber  and  dangling  from  his  buttonhole, 
came  and  went  as  in  his  own  house,  at  any 
hour,  without  paying,  which  fact  rejoiced  him 
every  time.  People  stared  at  him  a  great  deal. 
He  remained  there  whole  afternoons,  mingling 
with  groups  of  visitors,  trying  to  seize  a  word  of 
praise,  if  need  be  to  call  it  forth,  and  ready  to 
reply  to  the  offers  of  purchasers,  for  crowds  of 
people  visited  the  exposition.  Bills  placarded  in 
all  the  towns  of  the  west  summoned  the  people 
to  visit  the  "Fetes  of  Chateaulin  on  the  occasion 
of  the  Fine  Arts  Exposition."  The  newspapers, 
even  those  of  Paris,  applauded  this  trial  of  "ar- 
tistic decentralisation"  and  Monsieur  Prunelier, 
exultant,  had  read  to  his  wife  these  lines  taken 
from  one  of  them:  "The  gem  of  the  Exposition 
is  without  dispute  the  Raphael  from  the  collec- 
tion of  Monsieur  Prunelier,  one  of  the  most  dis-; 
tinguished  amateurs  of  Chateaulin.  This  superb 
canvas  is  for  sale.  We  would  like  to  hope  that  the 
Administration  of  the  Fine  Arts  will  not  a  second 
time  let  itself  be  forestalled  by  foreign  competi- 
tion, and  that  our  Louvre,  so  poor  ..."  etc. 

From  that  moment,  Madame  Prunelier  never 
left  the  house. 

"You  understand,  Valentine,"  the  painter  had 
said,  "  a  delegate  from  the  Fine  Arts  Administra- 


262  THE   RAPHAEL   OF 

tion  may  come  here.  He  must  find  some  one  to 
talk  with.  I  shall  be  at  the  Exposition.  Do  not 
budge  from  the  house,  so  that  we  shall  not  miss 
him." 

She  had  faithfully  observed  the  order;  she 
trembled  at  every  peal  of  the  bell,  imagined  a 
hundred  times  that  she  saw  him  pass  the  house, 
as  her  husband  fancied  that  he  recognised  him 
among  the  visitors. 

"That  must  have  been  he/'  she  said;  "that  tall, 
slender  man  with  decorations,  and  with  a  port- 
folio. He  seemed  to  be  a  stranger  in  Chateaulin." 

"He  did  not  come  in?" 

"No." 

"Doubtless  he  went  to  the  hotel.  He  will 
come  to-morrow,  Valentine." 

The  month  passed;  the  Exposition  closed;  the 
delegate  had  not  appeared.  Monsieur  Prunelier 
began  to  speak  in  the  harshest  terms  of  "that 
Administration,  the  most  indifferent  in  Europe," 
when,  one  morning,  as  he  was  working  alone  in 
the  little  dining-room,  the  postman  brought  a  let- 
ter of  elongated  form  bearing  a  foreign  stamp. 
At  once  Monsieur  Prunelier  comprehended  that 
the  decisive  hour  had  come.  There  was  the 
printed  address  of  the  sender  upon  the  envelope: 
"Thos.  Shepherd  and  Sons,  dealers  in  antique 
paintings,  253  Southampton  Street,  London." 
Beneath  this,  in  an  admirable  English  handwri- 
ting :  "  Monsieur  Prunelier  (Felix),"  and  in  a  corner 
the  word  "  Confidential."  The  painter  tore  it  open, 
uttered  a  cry,  and  began  dancing  about  the  room. 

Ten  minutes  seemed  an  hour  to  him.    When  he 


MONSIEUR   PRUNELIER    263 

heard  the  grating  of  the  key  in  the  lock,  he  threw 
himself  in  front  of  his  wife,  who  had  returned  from 
market. 

"Sold!  "he  cried,  "sold!" 

She  turned  very  pale,  and  staggering,  without 
saying  a  word,  followed  her  husband  into  the  di- 
ning-room. He  closed  the  doors,  made  her  sit 
down  near  the  table,  took  both  her  hands  in  his, 
and  while  his  eyes,  his  mobile  nostrils,  his  mouth, 
hidden  in  the  waves  of  his  grey  beard,  and  his 
whole  face  beamed,  he  repeated : 

"  Do  you  understand?    Sold ! " 

She  smiled  with  an  effort  like  a  person  who  is 
not  mistress  of  her  first  emotion  and  who  still 
doubts : 

"Really,  Felix!  He  came  then  while  I  was 
out?" 

"  No,  a  letter  came  from  a  large  firm  in  London. 
So  much  the  worse  for  the  Administration!  You 
do  not  think  that  I  should  wait  any  longer?" 

"Oh,  no!"  she  cried  eagerly,  "I  beseech  you!" 

"It  is  a  sacrifice  for  me,  Valentine.  My  pa- 
triotism suffers  at  the  thought  of  it;  to  see  a 
masterpiece  like  that  pass  into  the  hands  of  for- 
eigners, a  masterpiece!" 

"How  much  do  they  offer  you?"  she  inter- 
rupted. And  in  the  glance  she  fixed  upon  her 
husband  one  could  have  read  that  it  was  the  ques- 
tion of  poverty  or  of  a  happy  life  which  she  was 
asking.  He  turned  away  his  eyes  and  said,  let- 
ting his  fingers  slip  over  the  table : 

"  Mon  Dieu!  it  is  not  a  fortune — much  less  than 
it  is  worth — eight  hundred  francs." 


264  THE    RAPHAEL   OF 

Madame  Prunelier  bounded  from  her  chair: 

"  Eight  hundred  francs !    The  Raphael ! " 

"No,  my  dear/'  replied  Monsieur  Prunelier, 
lowering  his  voice,  "the  Raphael — with  the  Pous- 
sin  and  the  Salvator.  I  confess  it — it  is  very — 

"What  are  you  saying?  For  the  three!  Why, 
it  is  a  joke,  a  frightful  cheat — or  indeed  then  your 
collection  is — 

"Valentine!" 

"Well,  what  is  one  to  think?  That  passes  the 
limit  indeed !  Eight  hundred  francs  for  a  Raphael 
that  has  never  been  questioned !  How  many  times 
have  you  told  me  that  it  had  never  been " 

"They  do  not  question  it,  my  dear!  They 
write  explicitly:  'Your  Raphael,  your  Poussin, 
your  Salvator!'  Look  at  it.  The  trouble  is  that 
there  is  no  demand  for  art  any  longer;  no  more 
at  London  than  at  Chateaulin!  Is  it  my  fault? 
Oh!  why  did  you  come  in?  I  was  so  happy  a 
few  moments  ago!" 

Great  tears  rolled  down  the  cheeks  of  the 
painter,  dropping  upon  his  shaggy  beard.  He 
looked  so  unhappy  that  his  wife  pitied  him.  She 
went  up  to  him  and  kissed  him. 

"My  poor  Felix,"  she  cried,  "I  had  foolish 
ideas,  you  see.  That  Madonna  represented  a  for- 
tune to  me.  After  all,  eight  hundred  francs  is 
something  certainly!  It  will  help  us  veiy  much." 

Already  he  was  consoled,  this  old  baby  whom 
a  caress  appeased  and  a  word  of  hope  carried  off 
into  dreamland. 

"You  are  an  admirable  woman!"  he  exclaimed, 
"a  true  wife  for  an  artist!  You  may  be  sure  that 


MONSIEUR   PRUNELIER    265 

I  am  going  to  work  hard,  yes,  indeed!  You  will 
see.  It  gives  me  courage  to  see  a  little  water  come 
to  the  mill.  For  you  have  just  said  with  truth 
eight  hundred  francs  is  something!  I  shall  buy 
you  a  cloak  for  the  winter,  the  first  thing." 

"No,  no,  Felix,  I  do  not  want  one." 

"But  since  I  offer  it  to  you,  Valentine!  We 
will  discuss  that  later.  Let  us  go  for  a  walk  now, 
will  you?" 

Monsieur  Prunelier  took  his  wife's  arm  and 
drew  her  outside.  He  needed  to  show  his  joy. 
And  the  day  without  was  truly  of  exquisite  and 
tempting  clearness;  the  gillyflowers  along  the 
worn  walls  of  the  old  courts  were  drinking  in  the 
sunshine.  The  streams  of  light,  which  searched 
every  place,  silvered  the  fragments  of  mica  in  the 
granite  of  the  sombre  houses.  The  large  windows, 
with  their  tiny  panes,  were  open  on  each  side  of 
the  street;  and  the  housewives,  whom  the  mere 
sound  of  footsteps  attracts,  looked  down  aston- 
ished to  see  Monsieur  Prunelier,  who  was  walking 
slowly,  contrary  to  his  custom,  his  head  uplifted, 
rejuvenated,  with  the  air  of  a  new  man  among 
new  things. 

They  were  not  mistaken.  He  was  walking  in 
the  full  vision  of  the  future.  It  is  true  he  was  no 
longer  twenty,  but  life  still  stretched  out  a  long 
way  before  him;  above  all,  he  was  happy.  With 
the  price  of  his  Raphael,  he  was  buying  a  bond 
and  likewise  a  suit  of  blue  fine-twilled  flannel, 
ample  and  soft,  a  morning  suit  fit  for  a  gentleman 
artist. 

He  even  saw  a  pupil  in  his  enlarged  studio;  a 


266  THE   RAPHAEL   OF 

pupil  with  a  pointed  beard,  come  to  study  under 
his  direction,  to  learn  how  to  transfer  and  to  re- 
store works  of  art.  For  in  these  days  he  thought 
much  less  of  making  himself  the  head  of  a  school 
and  of  preparing  for  the  Prix  de  Rome.  Madame 
Prunelier  listened  to  him,  still  sad  from  the  dis- 
appointment that  she  had  experienced,  but  also 
pleased  to  see  his  happiness.  They  met  Monsieur 
Piedouche,  and  Monsieur  Prunelier  accosted  him 
f  amiliarly : 

"You  remember  that  Raphael  that  you  did 
not  take  seriously?"  he  said. 

"Well?" 

"It  is  sold  to  England."  . 

"Is  it  possible?" 

"As  I  tell  you.  All  the  profits,  you  see,  are 
not  in  banks,  Monsieur  Piedouche:  art  has  its 
returns,  too!" 

The  banker  was  a  kind  man.  He  replied  with 
sincerity : 

"So  much  the  better,  Monsieur  Prunelier,  so 
much  the  better!" 

The  couple  continued  their  walk.  They  crossed 
the  Aulne,  turned  to  the  left,  and  went  up  by  the 
path  which  the  pardon  processions  follow,  to  the 
hills  overlooking  the  little  town.  They  sat  down. 
The  river  made  a  bend  at  their  feet ;  a  double  wall 
of  trees  turned  with  it;  here  and  there  wooded 
heights  loomed  up  in  the  vast  horizon;  the  sky 
was  blue. 

"It  looks  a  little  like  Saint-Germain,"  said 
Monsieur  Prunelier.  "Do  you  recollect  the  day 
after  our  marriage  when  we  walked  upon  the 


MONSIEUR   PRUNELIER    267 

terrace?  I  was  twenty-four.  How  pretty  you 
were,  Valentine!  It  was  a  bright  day  like  this; 
do  you  remember  it?" 

For  the  moment  Madame  Prunelier  was  caught 
in  the  snare  of  recollections.  Both  travelled  far 
back  into  the  joyous  past;  both  agreed  that  life 
has  its  sweet  hours,  and  when  they  went  down 
the  hill,  a  long  time  after,  Chateaulin  received  a 
little  smile  like  that  of  former  days  from  Madame 
Prunelier,  a  smile  that  was  intended  for  Saint- 
Germain-en-Laye. 

From  that  time  Monsieur  Prunelier  began  to 
expect  the  payment  for  his  Raphael  with  the 
confiding  tranquillity  of  those  who  have  usually 
only  creditors. 

III. 

Three  months  later  the  painter,  sick  with  pov- 
erty and  with  grief,  was  forced  to  keep  his  bed. 
Alas!  That  great  English  firm!  It  had  had  the 
audacity,  some  weeks  after  the  delivery  of  the 
paintings,  to  claim  the  frames,  all  three  antique, 
which  Monsieur  Prunelier  had  believed  himself 
authorised  to  keep,  in  view  of  the  low  price  for 
the  paintings.  The  firm  gave  him  to  understand 
that,  as  soon  as  this  condition  was  fulfilled,  pay- 
ment would  follow.  The  poor  man  had  sent  the 
frames  on  to  rejoin  Salvator,  Raphael,  and  Pous- 
sin.  But  nothing  had  come  back  in  return;  not 
one  penny!  Wasted  and  dejected,  he  was  lying 
in  his  curtainless  iron  bed  a  prey  to  fever.  The 
famous  cloak  of  imitation  fur,  bought  on  credit, 


268  THE   RAPHAEL   OF 

which  covered  his  feet  in  the  guise  of  an  eider- 
down, the  paper  of  the  room,  loose  and  hanging 
from  the  wall  in  places,  the  chair  rounds  and  bits 
of  board  smouldering  in  the  chimney-place,  every- 
thing around  him  proclaimed  a  poverty  against 
which  one  struggles  no  more. 

It  was  the  end!  What  was  the  use  of  mending; 
what  was  the  good  of  keeping  things?  The  mas- 
ter was  dying!  In  order  to  buy  medicine  for 
him,  or  some  sweets  which  he  liked,  Madame  Pru- 
nelier  deprived  herself  of  food. 

She  forced  herself  to  give  him  courage  and, 
although  she  had  not  had  the  slightest  ray  of  hope 
for  a  long  tune,  she  often  talked  as  if  she  had. 
Her  turn  had  come  to  call  the  future  to  the  aid 
of  the  present;  twenty  times  a  day  she  would  go 
up  to  the  invalid  and  say  with  a  faint  smile : 

"  I  do  not  know  why,  Felix,  but  I  have  an  idea 
that  we  shall  be  paid?  Some  one  was  saying 
yesterday  that  nothing  was  lost!  What  a  pleas- 
ure it  will  be,  will  it  not,  as  soon  as  you  are  better, 
to  go  and  cash  the  bill  of  exchange?  We  will 
pay  our  debts,  Felix,  all  our  debts,  and  there  is 
sure  to  be  something  left;  I  have  calculated  that 
there  would  be  something  left." 

But  he  had  lost  faith  in  life.  She  looked  at 
him,  turned  away;  already  the  smile  had  van- 
ished. 

One  evening  the  bell  rang,  and  Monsieur  Pi£- 
douche  was  ushered  up.  His  face  wore  a  dis- 
creetly beaming  smile  as  he  entered  the  sick-cham- 
ber; his  watch-charms  moved  upon  his  panting 
breast.  On  seeing  him  seat  himself  at  the  foot 


MONSIEUR   PRUNELIER    269 

of  the  bed,  the  sick  man  raised  himself  upon  his 
elbow.  A  lightning-flash  of  his  proud  youth  as 
a  fierce  artist,  a  gleam  of  his  old  dislike  for  the 
bourgeois,  blazed  in  his  eyes. 

"How  are  you,  Monsieur  Prunelier?"  asked 
the  banker. 

"Poorly,  Monsieur." 

"What  is  the  trouble?" 

"  My  mainspring  is  broken." 

"Sapristi!  This  is  not  the  moment  for  that! 
Our  affairs  are  going  well." 

"  Not  mine — always " 

"But  here  is  the  proof,  my  dear  sir." 

The  banker  took  four  bank-notes  from  his 
pocketbook  and  tendered  them  to  the  poor  Bo- 
hemian. Monsieur  Prunelier,  who  had  instinc- 
tively reached  out  his  hand,  withdrew  it  with 
dignity. 

"By  what  right,  if  you  please?"  he  demanded. 

The  other  coloured  slightly  and  said : 

"Why — it  is  an  instalment  from  the  English 
firm."  * 

"Shepherd  &  Sons?" 

"Precisely." 

"That  is  all  right,  Monsieur;  pardon  me,  I 
thought  that  it  might  be  charity." 

The  poor  man  seized  the  bank-bills,  counted 
them,  turned  them  over,  arranged  them  one  after 
the  other  on  his  bed.  You  would  have  said  that 
he  had  taken  a  new  lease  of  life.  The  despondency 
from  which  nothing  had  roused  him  until  then 
disappeared  by  degrees;  he  began  to  talk  and 
chatted  for  more  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  A 


270    MONSIEUR   PRUNELIER 

glimmer  of  gaiety  even  touched  him,  and  he  recov- 
ered his  bantering  studio  tone  enough  to  say  to 
the  banker  when  he  was  taking  his  leave : 

"Joker!  You  see  now  that  I  was  not  mistaken! 
It  was  a  large  firm!" 

Illusions,  smiling  queens  of  the  world,  how  this 
man  belonged  to  you! 

He  died.  But  he  left  by  will  to  his  widow,  "In 
return  for  her  unalterable  devotion  in  good  as  in 
evil  fortune,"  all  his  property,  personal  and  real 
estate,  in  full  ownership,  notably  the  balance  of 
the  credit  of  Shepherd  &  Sons,  of  London. 

The  banker  paid  a  second  time,  with  the  same 
money  doubtless  as  the  first,  without  requiring 
a  commission. 

Madame  Prunelier,  grateful  for  his  kind  treat- 
ment, begged  Monsieur  Piedouche  to  accept  the 
Berghem  engraving. 

It  was  in  his  house  that  I  saw  it,  hanging  in  the 
banker's  library  above  the  scales  with  which  he 
weighs  gold — a  pretty  Dutch  landscape,  with  its 
mill,  its  river,  its  pale  sun,  discreet  as  a  smile 
of  pity. 

Monsieur  Piedouche  prizes  it  highly.  He  looks 
at  it  with  a  pleasure  in  which  its  art  has  little 
share,  for  one  day  when  some  one  asked  him : 

"How  much  did  you  give  for  it?" 

He  answered  thoughtlessly: 

"Eight  hundred  francs." 

And  at  the  other's  exclamation  of  surprise,  the 
worthy  man  added : 

"I  would  not  sell  it  for  double  the  money." 


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